Theme List
by Oldach's Dream
Summary: Challenge story. Each chapter is based on a prompt and will have an individual plot. I’ll list a pairing, if there is one, at the beginning of each chapter along with a small summary. The chapter title will be the prompt.
1. Incalculable

**Theme List**

By: Oldach's Dream

Summary: Challenge story. Each chapter is based on a prompt and will have an individual plot. I'll list a pairing, if there is one, at the beginning of each chapter along with a small summary. The chapter title will be the prompt.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Summary pretty much explains it all. I'm doing this mostly because I'm going to be very busy very soon and I don't want to stop writing. I chose this so no one will have to wait for new chapters after cliffhangers or get discouraged if I don't update for a long time. Plus, I currently have no multi-chapter story ideas, and with this, each chapter is just a oneshot. There are 64 prompts in this challenge. So this 'story' will be complete when all the prompts are used. I'm not sticking to one specific genre, character fixation, pairing, etc. So be sure to read my summary. Oh, and don't forget to review – that's important too.

* * *

**Summary**: When House interviews Chase. 

**Pairings:** None.

**Category:** General

**Timeline:** Pre-series. Obviously.

**Rated**: K+

Incalculable

After House came back to work – after the infarction, after Stacy left, after Wilson had left a permanent dent in sofa, after he'd grown used to the cane and the frown that seemed to never leave his face – Cuddy told him that he was going to be a department head.

"_I thought Hobbes was head of Nephrology." He'd all but growled. He'd wanted to go back to his office and take a nap. Maybe Wilson was right, he'd thought, maybe it was too soon for him to be back at work. _

"_He is." Cuddy had dropped the professional act after only a few seconds and sighed. "Let's face it, House, you don't spend the majority if your time in Nephrology." _

_The now crippled man had just raised his eyebrows in slight interest. _

_Cuddy had sighed again, "You run around and-"_

"_I don't think running's gonna be an issue anymore." He'd snapped bitterly._

_Cuddy shut her mouth promptly but stared at him long and hard, before speaking again. "You solve the cases no one else can solve."_

"_Okay…" House hadn't seen where this was going. He hadn't much cared at the time, either. _

"_I got a few donations," She'd explained. "Enough…enough to invest in a Diagnostic department." _

"_Which I'm going to be head of?" If House had sounded bemused, it's only because he had been. _

A month after House had agreed to her proposal – after he had the office and the most comfortable chair he could find online - she'd dropped the bombshell about the underlings he'd have to hire – and much debate had ensued. A war of sorts erupted and in the midst of that, House almost – _almost_ – forgot why he'd been so miserable for the last ten months.

It'd gone from five employees, to four, to eight, to ten, to one and then two. When the dust finally settled on Cuddy and House's war zone, referee Wilson was standing right there to announce the final score.

"_Three fellows." He'd said. Cuddy had confirmed and within the next week the phone calls started. _

It was two years, nine doctors, seventy-two cases, four lawsuits and uncountable screaming matches between him and Cuddy, later and he was still sans any permanent employees.

Both Cuddy and Wilson were sure that he was doing this on purpose, and to a degree, they were right. House didn't want employees – didn't want the responsibility of teaching.

On the other hand, if he was going to go through with this, he had to pick the best people.

Wimps, the unsure and the unprepared simply would not suffice.

He was in his office working on his 'I don't need any employees. _Really._' pitch to Cuddy when he'd gotten the call from Rowan Chase.

"_My son," he'd started in a pompous tone after the formal introductions had been made, "Will be coming to your hospital within the next week to interview for a position as one of your underlings." He'd said. _

_House had sighed, feeling worn, and told the world renowned doctor in no uncertain terms, "I'm not hiring people based on their daddies hopes and praises." He'd added, "In fact, any budding doctor who asks his father to make a call like this goes to the bottom of my-"_

"_Robert did not ask me to make this call." Rowan had interrupted him._

_House had rolled his eyes, even if the other man couldn't see him. "That's' what they all say." _

"_I'm not calling you to try to get Robert a job with you!" The man with the accent had shouted, and House was glad they were several thousand miles apart, so he couldn't see how much he'd been taken aback by that. "I'm calling…" House heard him take a deep breath, "I'm calling because my son has a particular…charm…about him."_

"_I…don't really care about charm." House had said slowly, feeling his way carefully after the outburst._

"_I believe that." And there'd been a touch of almost familiar fondness in his tone that House hadn't known what to do with. "But no matter how good his CV may be, how many glowing recommendations from other hospitals you may find, or how confident he seems, Robert is not ready for the responsibility that your fellowship would entail."_

"_You know, it's funny…" House had said, interest peaking, "Most parents encourage their kids. Root for them. Do all that sideline cheering soccer mom crap. You're the first call I've gotten in over a year discouraging me from hiring someone." House had paused for a moment to consider that. "Well, except that private detective from New York. Gawd, that was a fun two hours." _

_Rowan had sighed tiredly and House had felt rather proud – it'd been a long time since he'd made someone in another country tired and exasperated._

"_Robert should not be hired for this," his tone had held an air of finality; "He needs to come back to Australia." _

_House had politely wrapped up the conversation – promising Rowan that he'd take his advice into account – before hanging up and then picking up the phone again and rescheduling Robert Chase's interview. _

_That night – for the first time since he'd agreed to hire fellows – he took another doctor's file home and read it cover to cover. _

"Hi." Chase had reached his hand out and shaken House's formally before sitting down in the chair across from him.

House studied this man intently. Chiseled good looks, casual yet professional clothing, bright teeth…it wasn't much to go on.

"I appreciate this opportunity." The accent was a perk too, House thought absently. Something about diversity or patient interaction…Cuddy had been over the moon when she found out House had actually voluntarily not only _not_ cancelled an interview at the last moment – like he'd been doing for the past few months – but upped it. She hadn't quit talking about it, and House had stopped paying attention to her praises.

"I, ah…" Dr. Chase was nervous. That was a good first step. "I worked in Sidney for-"

"I read your file." House interrupted, leaning back and raising a hand to his chin, feeling his stubble absently.

Dr. Chase nodded and opened his mouth to say something more, but House stopped him. "Don't talk." Chase looked thoroughly confused, but closed his mouth, leaned back slightly and said no more.

So they sat in silence.

The clock he had on his office wall – the one that had a picture of a different beer for every number it was supposed to represent – ticked loudly in the background. The waterfall statue thing that Wilson had gotten him – supposedly to _create a soothing work environment_ – was trickling noticeably.

The sounds from the hospital hallway became distinctly apparent. Footsteps echoed, voices carried. On the bright side, House found out that a doctor in Radiology was having an affair with one of the male nurses. On the down side, Dr. Chase wasn't budging.

This was how he'd gotten rid of a good thirty of his former applicants. He'd told them to stop talking; they'd been quiet for a while – fourteen minutes was the max – then gave in and started chatting. House sent them all packing.

He wanted a subordinate who could follow orders.

All why they were silent his other would-be employees had been nervous, shifty eyed, noticeably uncomfortable. Some had given into particularly bothersome nervous ticks. One astoundingly irritating woman had kept popping her gum – House had just gotten up and left his office on that occasion.

But Robert Chase was doing none of the things that House normally found so irksome. He wasn't tapping his feet or drumming his fingers, he wasn't humming or chewing anything, he was sitting quietly, steadily, with a slightly far-off gaze in his eyes that House knew meant that he was daydreaming.

The older man couldn't help but be just a smidge impressed by that – daydreaming around your boss – or possible boss, as the case may be – was something with which he was intimately familiar.

It was twenty-one minutes later when House decided to step it up a notch. They'd been sitting in comfortable silence for long enough. Now it was time to sit in heavy, uncomfortable silence.

House caught Chase's eyes after only a moment of trying and didn't look away. And soon – impressively soon, though House would never admit to thinking that – Chase caught on.

So they stared at each other in silence.

Chase blinked first, but House allowed it, as he was most likely less skilled at staring contests than the older man. The next round started again after a few blinks for each participant – House was triumphant in round two, but just barely. His eyes were starting to water painfully.

They went again.

Every doctor that came through his door was marvelously talented, but House was not looking for talent alone. He himself was a doctor with a reputation for being insane, irresponsible, manipulative and always right. He had an unparalleled track record as far as solving cases went, and he knew it.

He therefore also knew that his fellowship would be held in extremely high regards.

If he'd wanted brains and a good rap sheet – he could have picked any three of the many files Cuddy had been giving him for two years.

He could have taped them all to the wall and thrown darts at them. Actually, he had picked a fellow that way once. That guy had only lasted a week and a half – but House had gotten a kick out of telling him why he'd been hired in the first place, at least. Before he'd fired him.

So he'd honed his interviewing method – or at the very least, he'd made it interesting. He made it a challenge.

And Dr. Robert chase still wasn't backing down.

They were 0 for 5 now in House's favor. When they began next, the Diagnostician could see the concentration etched on Chases' face, could practically feel how much he wanted to come out on top.

Competition was something Greg House held in high regard.

Seventy-five ticks of his beer clock later and House's eyes were burning. Twenty ticks after that, his eyes blinked before they'd received the okay from his mind and he cursed himself. He wasn't supposed to lose this game.

After blinking several more times to clear his vision, he focused his gaze enough to see Chase. The younger man was sitting before him, still, patiently, and readily. He wanted to go again. No expression of triumph lingered on his features – if there had been one at all, House couldn't detect it.

He narrowed his gaze, changing their battle setting yet again. Chase remained patient, ready to see what would come next.

Before House could figure it out, however, there was a knock on his door followed shortly by Wilson's entrance.

"How's it going?" He looked from House to Chase and back again, weariness residing in his posture, tone and voice.

The youngest man in the room looked at House questioningly now. He wanted to know if this was part of the game. He needed to know if this was another test.

House hadn't planned on his best friend's entrance, but decided to roll with it anyway.

When he spoke it felt wrong. His vocal chords were tight and his voice came out a little scratchy after over thirty minutes of non-use. "Fine." He managed evenly enough, looking occasionally at Wilson but focusing the majority of his attention on Chase. The younger man kept his expression calm. House was suitably impressed. "We're just having a little chat."

Chase couldn't hold back a grin at those words, and House filed that away for later use. Then he stopped and realized what he'd just done.

He'd made a mental note concerning this man. He'd thought briefly about how those naturally expressive eyes might come in handy later, he'd deduced that Dr. Robert Chase would probably never be able to lie to him.

He was quick in figuring out what that meant - for the both of them.

Chase's grin was gone now, he was looking at Wilson, who'd ventured far enough into the office to shake his hand and make polite introductions.

House knew the context of his little interview game was gone, but that was okay. He'd made up his mind.

"We're done here." He spoke firmly, rising to his feet and eyeing Wilson. "You owe me a Reuben."

His friend studied him carefully, eyed Chase, but chose to say nothing.

Chase stood up as well. Out of fear, respect or simply feeling uncomfortable, House wasn't sure. It scarcely mattered at this point.

He limped around his desk and fell into stride with Wilson, who started walking towards the door at House's lead, though he kept shooting worried, anxious glances over his shoulder to the Australian man still standing in House's office.

The limping man had the door opened before he turned around again and faced Chase. Wilson was standing so close to his side that their shoulders almost touched and the fear and uncertainty he was radiating almost equaled the younger doctor's.

Chase knew how hard it was to get a job with House. Wilson knew how hard it was to impress House.

House didn't think he was that hard to impress, personally, he just expected the best.

Because the best was all he bothered associating himself with. He knew this – they all knew this. So he spoke to Chase with a slight smirk etched onto his face comfortably.

"Be here by eight on Monday or you're fired."

Fin.


	2. Metaphor

**Summary**: An interesting chat with his best friend distracts Wilson from the events of his morning. Intimate knowledge of the Harry Potter book series is needed to really understand this one.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category:** Humor

**Timeline:** The Duckling Era. After Tritter.

**Rated**: K+

Metaphor

House was staring intently at his computer screen, his face crinkled in confusion, his hand clicking the mouse every few seconds. This was the intense concentration that most doctors gave to patient files, background records, medical articles and office memos.

James Wilson knew his best friend better than that.

"New game?" He asked with mild interest, sitting down in the chair across from House's desk, slouching slightly and running a hand over his face tiredly.

He'd come in here on his lunch break to escape the hectic, depressing atmosphere of his own office. Three newly diagnosed terminal patients before lunch and he was thoroughly ready for a break.

"No." House shook his head without looking up from the computer. "Test."

Wilson's eyebrows rose in interest. "IQ test? Because if you're trying to show off, there are easier ways."

His friend barely responded to the jibe, just shook his head again slightly. "Not an IQ test."

Wilson waited several long moments before giving up. "Care to share?"

"I'm finding out which Harry Potter character I most resemble." He muttered, as if that were a casual way in which to spend your time at work. "Personality wise." He added.

Wilson waited again, to see what the punch line was, but when House said nothing more, he began to chuckle. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Actually…" House leaned back and clicked the mouse one last time. There was a long pause and then the computer made a chiming sound. "I am."

He looked up finally and met Wilson's eyes. "That's just weird." He swiveled his chair a little. "Do I strike you as a Sirius?"

Wilson had to take a second and figure out what exactly his friend was talking about, and when he did he changed his gaze to a thoughtful one, all memories of his new patients erased from his mind. "Actually, yeah. You kinda do."

House humphed. "I was expecting Voldemort."

Wilson balked, "You're not a psychopathic murderer."

The older man just frowned deeply.

"Really," Wilson put some thought into this. "If I had to chose, I'd peg you as Lupin."

"A kindhearted werewolf?" House asked questioningly.

"A really good teacher." Wilson amended and thought for a brief moment that he saw a look of pride flash across his friend's face, before it reverted back into its usual scowl.

"Maybe Quirell." He muttered thoughtfully.

Wilson rolled his eyes, deciding not to push his subtle compliment. "Again, not a psychopathic murderer."

"Quirell wasn't a murderer." House said logically – as if anything about this conversation could be deemed rational. "He was just housing one in his body."

"Still," Wilson rolled his eyes again and dropped that. "You're not him."

"I think you'd be more fit as Lupin." House studied him thoughtfully. "There's a certain…rouge similarity."

"How's that?" He inquired wearily, leaning back further into his chair and getting comfortable.

House shrugged. "You just keep going despite all the odds. He's a werewolf who wants to blend into society. You're a depressed Oncologist with three ex-wives. His best friend was a known murderer; your best friend is a known addict with a rap sheet. You both always want to see the best in people, even when there isn't any. And you're both all about the encouraging of young souls."

Wilson digested all that slowly, wondering whether to take it as a compliment, an insult or both. "You need a hobby." He decided finally.

House just grinned. "I've given this a lot of thought."

"Oh, do tell." Wilson just had to hear this.

"The kids," House started with a gleam in his eyes, "Their tests came back interesting."

"You got Chase, Cameron and Foreman to take an online test about the characters in a children's book?" Wilson could imagine Cameron doing that, if only because she would probably do anything House asked her to do. Chase might have given in if House was bothersome enough about it, but Foreman… Wilson just couldn't see succumbing to something so juvenile.

So he eyed his friend suspiciously.

House relented, "Nah," he waved a hand carelessly, "I filled in the answers for them."

Wilson could almost believe that his friend knew enough about his employees to accurately take a personality quiz for them. "And?" He really did want to know. "Who's who in this intricate game of _Avoid real work in any and all possible ways_?"

House grinned before responding. "Cameron's Hermione."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Well, duh."

"Yeah, that one was pretty obvious." House allowed. "And Foreman-"

"Let me guess?" Wilson interrupted, "Ron?"

The Diagnostician looked at him oddly. "Not even close."

"Fine." Wilson huffed, he'd briefly enjoyed the idea of the Neurologist as the redheaded sidekick. "Then who?"

"Malfoy."

Wilson laughed outright at that. "Scarily enough, that makes a lot of sense."

"Yeah," House was chuckling too. "Apparently his relationship with _me _parallels Malfoy's relationship with _Snape._"

"I thought you were Sirius." Wilson said thoughtfully.

"Apparently not in that metaphor," he shrugged and continued. "Chase was the most surprising of them all."

"I'm not even gonna guess," Wilson sat back and waited.

"Harry."

The Oncologist's eyes grew wide. "Harry? That website compared Chase to Harry Potter?"

"Yeah," House raised a hand to his chin and spoke rationally. "It actually makes some sense, if you think about it. The abandoned by his parents thing. Trying desperately to fit into a world that he doesn't feel he belongs in. Two constant companions, an almost crippling inability to be mean to people…" he looked as thoughtful as Wilson felt. "Plus, in _that _metaphor, the whole me being Sirius Black thing fits."

The younger man's eyebrows shot to his hairline, acknowledging for him that he knew exactly what _that_ metaphor implied.

He wanted to question it more, but House had moved on. "Cuddy's McGonagall."

He couldn't help but smirk, letting the issue of Chase go easily as he knew he'd get no more discussion about it out of House. "It's so easy to picture her as a tabby cat."

"And you really did come up as Lupin." House added.

"Of course." Wilson rolled his eyes. "No Dumbledore, then?"

"I think that's what I _should _have been." House all but huffed. "But I had to answer yes to that stupid _Have you ever spent time in jail for something other than parking tickets? _question."

"Damn criminal record." Wilson mock scowled right as his pager went off. "Damn." He swore upon reading the message. He looked back up to his friend. "I've gotta go."

"Be careful," House called as Wilson got up and moved to the office door. "Tonight's a full moon."

"I'll see you later, House." The younger man answered with a grin before leaving the Diagnostic office and returning to Oncology. He felt lighter, a little better about his job, his decisions and his life in general. People wondered sometimes why Wilson had remained friends with House for so long – well, this was why.

His best friend provided him with something that no one else ever could. A little escape from the real world – that's all he needed from time to time. That's what Wilson got from House. A reprieve.

Fin.


	3. The Beginning is the End is the Beginnin

**Summary**: Second person point of view. Chase is in House's office late one night and he overhears a private conversation.

**Pairings:** Implied House/Wilson.

**Category**: Drama

**Timeline:** Pre-series.

**Rated**: K+

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning

You wonder sometimes why you do these things.

When you were a child, a teen, you took great pleasure in doing all the things you knew you weren't supposed to do. Anyone who ever caught on to the things you did, brushed it all aside as the behavior of a typical teenager.

_Boys will be boys, _they'd said, and you'd nodded, apologized and walked away so you could smoke in private.

You knew it was more than adolescent angst flaring up inside of you. You needed to push boundaries, you needed to feel your way around every given situation, you needed to know exactly what you could get away with.

And to this day that remains the truth. You're no longer a boy, and this is now a personality quirk. It's why you're in your boss's office at three thirty in the morning using his computer.

You needed a computer – as your home one picked last night to crap out on you – and you knew House had one. You'd seen the man leave his office at five that afternoon. You knew you'd be alone.

So you sit in House's office doing continual research for an article you want to have published by this Christmas.

By now, you knew what House would let you get away with in the context of your day-to-day job. And you almost wish that he'd make a surprise appearance in his office so he would catch you here now.

You wanted to know how far you could push him.

_Be careful what you wish for…_

Not ten minutes later you hear a door open. You panic at first; jump up from your seat in his chair and quickly turn the computer monitor off. You're shoving things into your briefcase before you focus enough to realize where the sound came from.

The door to the conference room are being pushed open. You move to the side of the wall by the door and stand against that wall as still as you can. Since the light from the computer had been extinguished you're cloaked in darkness.

So you listen.

"You really didn't have to wait." You hear James Wilson's voice and you're not sure whether to be relived or doubly nervous.

On one hand, House catching you in here with Wilson present might make it a little easier on you. On the other hand, Wilson might be just as appalled by your lack of respect for your boss as your actual boss will be.

House's voice is tired and thick but audible all the same. "I fell asleep. I didn't mean to wait."

"Gee, thanks." The Oncologist barked a laugh and you hear House mumble something that you can't quite make out.

There were some shuffling sounds and a loud banging and you're holding your breath because, what if they decide to come in here? There'd be no way to hide what you'd been doing. That you'd been spying.

"God, Greg," Wilson's voice is quiet and concerned and you start slightly when you hear the first name. You've been working here five months and so far no one has called House by his first name in your presence.

You forget what it is from time to time, because it's just that irrelevant.

"You look like crap."

"Thanks, Jimmy," House's tone was familiarly sarcastic but you hear something else in that deep voice that you've never heard before. "You know its comments like that that'll get you laid."

Had anyone else heard that comment out of context they would have just written it off as House being House. But you couldn't, because you were right there. You couldn't see them, couldn't risk your shadow peaking out from your hiding place and giving you away, but you could hear them.

Your employer's voice was low and husky and almost affectionate. You didn't think House was capable of affection, but now that you've heard it, you can't remember why you'd ever thought that.

Wilson responded with a weary sigh. "We should go home. You're grumpy."

"I'm always grumpy." This was exactly what you'd been thinking, so that was kind of cool.

"No," You could hear the fondness in the Oncologist's voice. Fondness and affection. You think maybe that you'd figured it out. "You pretend to be grumpy."

"Do not." Your boss sounds so remarkably like a child that you have to smile. You knew you liked this man for a reason.

"Do to. And shut up and put your coat on." There's a shuffling and you could only assume that House was following the order. "Why'd we come back in here anyway?"

Moments of silence passed before Wilson made an 'ahh' sound. You could only guess what nonverbal exchanges must have just taken place. "Great then, let's go. We're lucky as hell it's Friday. No way are we waking up tomorrow morning."

"Yeah," House snorted in response. "And we can spend tomorrow afternoon doing the things we're too old and tired to do tonight."

You wanted to be shocked at what that implied, but you just couldn't be. You'd seen it coming. For the last ten minutes and for the last four and a half months. You were more perceptive than everyone – except House – gave you credit for.

"Bonnie wants to go out to dinner tomorrow night, try to work on our relationship." You hear the regret and fear lingering in your boss's friend's voice and you remember that Bonnie was Wilson's wife's name.

You wonder briefly how you could have forgotten that.

"Jimmy," House sighed and sounded deeply tired when he spoke again. "This is getting old. You've got to make a damn decision already."

"You never made a decision when it was Stacy." Wilson snapped and you're only vaguely curious as to who Stacy was.

"That's irrelevant." And that was how fast House could go from tired and affectionate to angry and hostile. You make a mental note to never piss your boss off too much.

"I'm sorry, Greg." Wilson sighed and you find yourself holding your breath in anticipation. "I can't leave her. She needs me."

"What if I said I needed you too?"

So much silence thickened between the two older doctors that you can't even bring yourself to think anything. You're a part of their silence now, a part of this moment.

"I…" Wilson's voice trailed off, you hear House's cane shift – that's how quiet it is. "I don't know."

You glance at the clock in your boss's office and start counting along with the ticks it emits. Its one minute and fifty-four seconds later before you hear another sound.

"Go home, Wilson." House's voice was hard and cold, you're heart hurts a little for him, and you don't examine why. "Go have sex with your wife. We can't do this anymore."

"Greg…" you hear tears in that word, you want to stop the destruction occurring just outside your line of vision. You want to fix it. You want the world to be a fair place where deserving people got what they deserved and nothing was unjust.

You wanted a fairy tale.

But you knew those didn't exist and you don't think you've ever hated that more than you do in this moment.

"Goodnight, Wilson." There were footsteps and you hear the third steady thump that meant House was leaving. The door opened and closed and you wanted to move out of the shadows and yell at James Wilson.

You want to tell him to go after House. That whatever it was that they had made the older man happy – and happy was something you didn't think House could ever have. You wanted to play God.

But you'd learned long ago that there was no God. And even if you weren't entirely sure about that a lot of the time – you still knew that _you_ weren't any kind of God, no matter how badly you wanted to fix this.

"Bye, Greg." You barely hear Wilson's mumbled words, but you do hear them, and your heart hurts even more.

Then there are more footsteps and the door opens and closes again.

You're alone again.

Numbly you move away from the wall, go back to House's desk and gather your things, turn the computer monitor back on, close out what you'd been doing, before turning the device off.

You can't think about what you just heard. It isn't your place to know these things and you now regret coming to House's office tonight.

You shouldn't have pushed this. But you had and you knew the limits now. You'd never come to House's office late at night without his being aware of it ever again. You would never invade his privacy. Because now you knew something that no one was supposed to know.

And if you had just minded your own damn business, you wouldn't be feeling this pain. You wouldn't have this added layer of information.

You would never be able to look at your boss the same way again, after tonight, but maybe that was just a little okay.

You'd been starting to think – before tonight – that House could feel no real emotions. Now you knew he could, and he did. That he cared. That there was pain and a girl named Stacy and a huge secret he was keeping from everyone.

Because now these were your secrets too.

You don't realize your crying until your outside in the cold and the tears freeze in place on your cheeks.

Fin.


	4. Give

**Summary**: House caves.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category**: General.

**Timeline:** Right after the Tritter arc.

**Rated**: K

Give

He'd started smoking in rehab specifically because they'd told him not to. It wasn't until his world realigned itself, until Tritter was gone and they'd all moved on, that he remembered why he hadn't smoked a cigarette since he was a kid.

"You're gonna get addicted to those." His best friend the Oncologist stood with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face.

"Too late," House said in a monotone voice as he blew smoke out an open window.

"Do you _know _how many kinds of cancers cigarettes cause?"

"No..." House drawled. "I skipped that seminar in med school."

"You're gonna kill yourself." Which hit a little too close to home given the events of late, but House didn't care much.

"You said that about the bike." He pointed out. "But I haven't crashed yet."

Wilson just shook his head back and forth slowly. "Doesn't mean you won't."

House finished his cigarette as he watched Wilson walk away. Who knew all it ever took was nicotine to get his Saint-like friend to give up on him? He filed that away for later use.

Two days later Foreman walked into his office as he was lighting up. "Tests came back negative."

House took a deep drag and exhaled slowly, rolling his chair over so he was by the window again. "That's good then."

"No," Foreman didn't take a step closer, which House smirked at. His tone and posture all screamed confrontation, but he wouldn't invade House's personal space. Because his personal space now smelled like an ashtray. He smirked quietly as Foreman laid out his strategy for treating their newest patient.

"Sounds good to me." House was smiling as the black man stormed out the door.

They kept Foreman from 'gettin' all up in his grill' and they could make Jimmy and his caring, compassionate speeches go away with a puff of smoke and a well placed cough.

House was beginning to think that rehab might have been good for something after all.

A day after that, House sat with his feet propped up on his desk and his head lulled back on his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was halfway through his second pack in a week.

Wilson hadn't stopped by his office once in the past two days, Foreman stayed as far away as possible and his other two ducklings were following his lead.

House hadn't smoked like this since he'd been a kid, and when you're a kid - smoking is a much more acceptable pastime. He didn't know why he'd never thought about incorporating this into his everyday antics to get people to leave him the hell alone.

It was going great.

Even Cameron was openly repulsed. "That's disgusting." She'd crinkled her nose for affect.

"Then go away." House blew smoke and watched lazily the patterns it made above him. He didn't bother aiming towards the window anymore - he'd disabled all the smoke alarms in his office days ago.

"I wanted to talk to you about our patient..." she went to take a step closer but stopped herself. "I don't think the mother was lying when she said-"

"In three seconds," House interrupted, "I'm going to put out this cigarette and light another one. Then I'm gonna light another one, and I'm going to keep doing this until you leave and go talk to the _step_-mother like I told you to ten minutes ago."

"But..."

She watched as House did as he promised and used the still smoking butt of his last cigarette to light the one he'd pulled out of his pack. He vaguely saw Cameron's face turn a lively green color as he stuck the pack back into the front pocket of his jeans right before she walked away.

It was nearing ten before House told his team to go home for the night - that all they had left to do was wait six hours and see if the meds started working. Cameron and Foreman were practically racing each other to the door when House stepped into his office to gather his own belongings.

He had a lit cigarette in his mouth by the time his bag was half-packed and he honestly couldn't recall getting it out or lighting it. Sighing to himself he rolled his eyes and began looking around for the case file he needed.

When the door to his office opened he was genuinely surprised. "Chase,"

The younger man nodded at him. Without the doctor's coat and his hair perfectly styled, he could almost remember that Chase was a normal human being. "You're still smoking."

House rolled his eyes again, "Go bitch to Foreman and Cameron. Or Wilson." He went back to shoving his ipod and PSP into his book bag. "I look cool and I know it."

Chase smiled a little at that, before biting his lip and rubbing his nose anxiously. "You don't smoke lights." He commented absently.

House narrowed his eyes. "Lights are for wimps. 100's are alright."

"I always liked menthols." Chase surprised him by saying this, but House didn't let it show.

"No flavor."

"Newports." Chase pointed out and House tilted his head to one side, allowing that. "The ones in Australia are way too strong."

"Like home-rolled," House nodded.

"Worse." The younger man debated. "You got full's right?" He added, "Full flavor?"

"Newports, actually," and House grinned at the absurdity of this. "They were most expensive ones I could find."

"My mum smoked," he threw it out there casually, only House knew it was anything but, so he closed his mouth and narrowed his eyes, smoking cigarette dangling between two fingers. "All the time while she drank. I picked it up because I thought if she saw me doing it, she might stop."

"Never works like that." House said in a neutral tone, licking his lips and balancing his weight on his desk with his left hand – the hand with the ashing Newport in it.

"Learned that the hard way." Chase shrugged, still sounding as casual as one could when discussing things of this nature. "You smell like...our old place." House knew he'd chosen his words carefully there.

House nodded. Chase nodded back and left it at that. He handed House the patient file he'd been looking for, before walking out.

If he were one to keep score, Dr. Chase would have just received a point in his favor.

Shaking his head at his own decision, he finished the cigarette he was smoking and opened the balcony door wide, so the smell that had accumulated over the past week or so would creep out overnight.

House never smoked in the Diagnostic office again.

Fin.


	5. Missing Time

**Summary**: Chase is having a bad night and House has to deal with it.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category:** Drama/Angst

**Timeline:** The Duckling Era.

**Rated**: T

Missing Time

_4:02am_

Chase stumbled through the door before focusing his eyes enough to look confused. "This isn't my apartment."

"Two points for team Dragon Chaser." House griped, before turning around and speaking harshly. "God help you if you ever tell anyone – especially Wilson – about this, got it?" Chase nodded with wide eyes, still seemingly confused.

The older man muttered as he limped towards his hall closet, "Stupid little wombat couldn't just get wasted at a bar like everyone else. No, he has to friggin' drag me into-"

"What?" Chase was swaying in place when House returned.

He threw the blanket at him and pointed accordingly as he began speaking again. "Couch. Bathroom. Kitchen." He lowered his hand. "Don't wake me up in the morning."

"I'm sleeping on your couch?" Chase seemed not at all caught up with his current surroundings. Which probably, House guessed, had a lot to do with his falling asleep during the car ride here.

"Which reminds me," he followed his own thoughts, not the other man's words. "I now have pictures of you drooling, and blackmail's a bitch. So, again, if anyone asks, you got drunk at a bar and spent the night at a motel like a normal guy who doesn't want to go home."

Chase nodded though House doubted he'd comprehended the majority of his words. And when he glanced away to look longingly at the sofa, House's expression relaxed into one almost resembling fondness.

"Go to sleep already, kid." He said with as much annoyance as he could muster – which wasn't much.

Chase complied all the same, practically falling onto the couch, pulling the blanket up over him and snuggling – yeah, _snuggling_ – into the pillow that had already been there.

House let out a deep sigh as he moved around and did a few last things before retiring to bed himself.

He'd placed a large trash can in Chase's direct line of vision, lest he need to make a repeat performance of his spectacle in the office. And he'd left a bottle of Aspirin and a glass of water on the table – but if Chase ever dared mention that, he'd deny all knowledge.

He went to sleep knowing that the events that had unfolded tonight – Chase's actions and his own – had added up to a complex puzzle littered with annoyingly emotional pieces. He went to sleep knowing that this was a puzzle he'd probably never solve.

And – for possibly the first time in his life – he was okay with that.

o0oo0o

_3:33am_

The patter of steady rain drops coming down outside and assaulting the hospital windows was more comforting to the crippled old man than he dare ever admit to anyone.

In his youth, he'd had an uncanny affection for thunderstorms. His first memory was that of deep, rumbling thunder and the bright streaks of lightening bolts.

He couldn't have been more than two or three years old; he remembered rising his head from the comfortable dent in his pillow and feeling immediately curious. Even back then his curiosity had always gotten the better of him.

To pacify that curiosity he'd climbed out of his bed - he knew he'd had something warm and soft clutched in his embrace; an old stuffed animal or blanket long since disposed of, most likely - and with that safety net keeping him steady, he'd wandered onto the back porch of the one-story ranch house he and his parents had been living in.

He knew he'd been young, because he knew this specific memory had a solid location in the United States; and the House family had moved out of the U.S. when Greg was no older than four, and didn't return again until he was well into his pre-pubescent years.

This memory, his first memory, was about as clear and precise as one can ever expect their first memory to be. He knew it had been warm; the winds kicked up from the storm wafting by and tickling his skin, causing him to shiver innocently. Not from cold.

The porch from which he'd watched the trees sway back and forth in tune with whatever or whomever was conducting this massive display of power had offered him overhead protection. But still the rain eventually soaked through his skin, being whipped at him diagonally, causing the roof above him to become obsolete.

Most of all, though, Greg House remembered being alone. Because as much as he muddled through his sketchy recollection of that night, he could not put either of his parents in the scene. Because they'd simply not been there.

Sleeping, drunk, having sex - they may have even put in earplugs to protect themselves from the sounds of the roaring thunder that Greg had found so interesting - he'd never know one way or another.

It was his first memory, his first emotional connection to the real world, and the emotions he came out of it with were that of peace. Comfort.

So, to this day, that's what Greg House associated with the sounds, feelings and smells that accompanied a thunderstorm; Comforting solitude.

He'd never been one for self-psychoanalysis - he'd rather leave that up to the quacks who deemed themselves doctors yet probably couldn't work a stethoscope to save their lives - but even he couldn't deny the metaphor laced within that memory. And while he rather not, he also couldn't keep his thoughts from mulling over his out of place reminisces.

It was late. Late Friday night and Greg House was probably the only doctor - not counting the poor saps posted at ER stations - currently still in the building. What he needed right now was a good distraction. He needed to go home and watch TV, play the piano, call a hooker, get drunk. Anything.

And he intended to do just that. He just needed to make a quick stop in his office first. Car keys - no bike tonight. Hooray for foresight and the weather channel - jacket, book bag. And he'd be off.

He would have been too.

Off to live out another night in his empty apartment. Off to be alone. To the comfort and safety he felt there.

His internal thunderstorm.

He was so close, in retrospect. So close.

Then he limped heavily into his office and - as so often happens - everything changed.

o0oo0o

_3:37am_

"What in the hell are you doing?" Was his first, admittedly knee-jerk, outraged reaction to the scene he'd stumbled into.

Robert Chase was draped over his desk. The only real similarity his position had to sitting was that his ass was in House's leather chair. Other than that, it looked as if he were trying to decipher some microscopic words etched into the top of the elder man's desk.

There was his bottle of Scotch - his secret, well hidden, very expensive - bottle of Scotch open and setting in front of him. Half empty.

At House's words, Chase at least had the decency to look up. His arms were splayed out in front of him, fingers clenched lightly and his eyes betrayed the proper amount of fright, and for that, House could almost overlook the delayed response.

"...chasing the Dragon?" His words weren't nearly as frightened as his eyes.

"Okay, one; That's a reference to heroin. And you better not be shooting up heroin in my office. Two," His cane lead the way and three hobbling steps later, he was close enough to smell the liquor. Almost the desperation. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I..." Chase, at least, made the effort to lift his head some more. So that his gray eyes could meet House's blue ones almost levelly. "I thought you were gone already."

"Yeah, well, live and learn." House was still acting incredibly pissed. And yeah, maybe some of that anger was disguising shock. And maybe a little, _little _bit of that shock was giving way for genuine concern.

But, he told himself firmly, that was just because he'd stumbled across an anomaly.

"That stuff was expensive." He decided to gripe at his Intensivist, buying himself time to figure out his next move. This wasn't a situation he found himself in often, after all.

"Tasted great." His accent was coming out so thick, that House could have sworn he heard it in Chase's accompanying giggle.

Still not sure how to respond to seeing his normally so solid and unflappable employee in such a state, House let an idea wander into his head. And before he could completely rebuke the notion, he had to know.

"Were you on an ICU rotation tonight?" It would explain away all of the symptoms, House reasoned. If Chase had lost one too many patients. Or even just one that he'd been attached to, for whatever reason.

He'd seen this same turn of events with Jimmy a time too many for his liking. When one of his baldies bit the dust or he got kicked to the curb in the end game of his latest romantic entanglement.

It didn't mean that he'd be comfortable with the situation - and certainly not with the fact that Chase apparently had as much trust in him as Jimmy did - but at least he would know what was going on.

Thus he was thoroughly disappointed when Chase's shaggy blonde hair flopped around with his head in a negative back and forth response.

"Nope." He all but slurred. "Nopey, nope. Nope."

House rolled his eyes at the drunken Australian. It was amusing, he'd give Chase that.

"You got another parent I don't know about?" House tried, deciding on impulse as the cold, almost hurtful words spewed from his lips, to sit down in the chair across from the desk. "Were you adopted? Your birth mother show up, die of cancer before your very eyes?"

Chase's gaze narrowed and House felt a flash of surprise. No way in hell...

"Where'd 'ou get that?" Chase croaked and, despite the circumstances, the gruff man felt relief.

He had enough parental issues of his own. Dealing with Chase's required more remorse than he possessed.

"Soap opera." House grunted. Because that had indeed been where he'd gotten the idea. "So..." House dragged out the word when the younger man would say nothing more. His demeanor had calmed considerably since he'd unwittingly stumbled into this web of angst. He actually hadn't been that angry to begin with. Just puzzled. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to be caring and compassionate? Ask what's wrong so I can make it all better?"

Steely gray held his gaze again. House wondered if he was getting through.

"I..." Chase was either too drunk or too confused about his own motives for this late night pity party to summon up a properly witty response. "I don't..."

"Because last I checked," House tore his own inquisitive eyes away from Chase, to focus on the cane he was rolling absently between his palms. "getting drunk in a hospital was kind of a no-no. Not positive, though. Maybe we should check with Cuddy."

His gaze still lowered, House couldn't see Chase's expression, but the outraged fear in his tone was answer enough for the elder man. "You're going to rat me out to Cuddy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" He kept his tone perfectly neutral. "You're breaking the rules."

"Like you give a rat's ass-"

"I bet we could call her at home right now. Page her with some sort of fake emergency."

Chase's silence was answer enough again. House kept pushing. "If nothing else, she'd probably be able to provide the sympathetic, tear-worthy shoulder you seem to need right now."

"Because you're _all _about the needs of others." He dragged out 'all' making the word sound hauntingly sarcastic, a barb intended to cause emotional pain.

"Or I could get Wilson," House went on. His voice was still casual, yet there was a hint of something almost real there too. Hopefully, Chase was too drunk to notice that.

House knew his longest employed fellow well enough to know what was out-of-character for him. The same way he knew how Cameron's moral compass operated and that Foreman's instinctual fear of conflict often got in the way of his job - and the image he tried so hard to keep up for the rest of the world.

He didn't necessarily want to know these things. He just did.

"Wilson?" The drunken Aussie echoed uncomprehendingly.

"Yeah." House said in a monotone. "He's way better than Cuddy at the touchy-feely crap."

"I don't want to talk to Wilson." Chase sagged slightly, House could see him out of his peripheral vision.

"Then you _do _want me to call Cuddy?" House had to figure out a way to fix this. And fast. He _really _wanted to go home. To solve this and move on.

"God, no." Chase chuckled slightly at his own answer, as if it held some ironic humor that House couldn't grasp.

"Cameron?" The older man tried, not expecting anything other than what he got; a painfully sarcastic grunt.

House shifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Foreman? I mean, I don't really wanna know _why _you'd want me to call Foreman, but if you do..."

"I don't." Chase snorted. "I really, really, _really _don't."

"My God, you get repetitive when you're wasted."

Chase's tone switched from vaguely disconnected to sharp and inquisitive. If it wasn't for the stupidity of the question, House almost would have been able to believe that he was discussing a differential. "Why are you even here?"

"My office." the senior doctor put his answer into words only because - for some reason - he couldn't bring himself to look up and grace Chase with glare. "My chair. My desk. _My _booze."

"I mean..." the younger man went on. "Why are you here _now_? It's late."

"Or early." House deflected, "And I could ask you the same thing."

"Marla's at my apartment," he answered the subtle inquiry, and House stifled a sigh. If Chase wasn't deflecting, that meant he wanted to talk. To him.

"Girlfriend?" He'd traveled this path with Jimmy as well. First came the denial.

"Yupper."

Then again, Chase wasn't married. No reason to deny it.

Next came the reasoning.

"Needed something to fill the empty void in your wounded heart?" Tact wasn't his forte. If his Intensivist had expected anything different, he should have stolen someone else's first class alcohol. Holed himself up in someone else's office at three in the morning.

"You're a bastard." His words weren't exactly angry, though, and House was beginning to get frustrated.

Jimmy was so much easier. Because he knew Jimmy. Had twelve years of friendship under his belt; well-worn paths of predictable outcomes.

So he snapped. "And you _know _that. You _know _I'm a bastard. Yet you're here. So tell me what's going on or call yourself a cab and go home. Go to a motel. Take two weeks off and go back to Australia. I don't care. Just don't drag me into your pathetic life without good reason."

"I didn't know you were here." House finally looked up and met his gaze again. The gray eyes were sharp, but not clear. Still obviously clouded by intoxication. "I thought you'd gone home to _your _pathetic, miserable life already."

Going for the jugular again. House was intrigued. He was also rather angry. The words hurt more than they probably should have. He'd heard them many a time before. Just not from Chase.

Splitting the difference between his moods, he settled for logic. "No you didn't." He snapped. "Your coat's hanging over there," he gestured to the coat rack without looking away. "It's wet. So's your hair. Meaning you were outside. Meaning you saw my car. And you _knew _I was here. That's _why _you're here."

Actually, there was only about a fifty to seventy percent chance that Chase had seen his car and actually recognized it, but House was hoping the younger doctor was too drunk to realize that. He needed the truth.

Luck - or not-luck, depending on how he looked at it - was on his side. "Fine!" Chase threw up his hands, letting them fall back down harshly on the wood, flopping like dead fish. "I knew you'd be here. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

House sighed the sigh he'd been holding in for the last ten minutes, running a hand over his face tiredly. "The psych ward is always looking for fresh new patients." He said harshly. "Want me to call up there? Reserve you a spot for their ten-thirty group therapy?"

It was Chase's turn to sigh now. Only his was one of defeat. "I shouldn't be here." And as if to prove his statement, the younger man steadied his arms on the wooden surface and attempted to rise to his feet. "Just never mind. Forget it."

House watched in a detached sort of way as Chase balanced his weight on his legs. He seemed almost steady, until he went to take a step forward and tilted dramatically to one side. Throwing out an arm to steady himself instinctively, he ended up balanced against the back of the chair.

House rolled his eyes. Amusing gave way for pathetic.

"Sit down." He commanded.

"No." The Australian resembled a petulant four-year-old with his word and defiant expression.

With a grace that no one ever believed a cripple capable of, House rose from his own chair and moved around until he was in front of Chase. The shorter man looked up at him, blinking a few times confusedly, still managing to look rebellious.

House raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, and with one comical push, had Chase back in his chair. It rolled slightly as the drunken weight of the skinny blonde assaulted it, leaving him several inches away from the desk. Though now, at least, it actually looked like he was sitting.

"Stay." House barked, moving away again - out into the conference room.

Chase muttered something that could have been, "I'm not your damn puppy," after House's retreating form, but the older man promptly ignored it as he made a beeline for the coffee machine.

As far as he was concerned, Chase _was _a puppy. A sad, sick, kicked little puppy. A stray that had wandered into House's life - and his liquor cabinet - and if the senior doctor didn't take care of him now, he'd be left out in the cold. Alone. And while the idea of having a puppy had never been appealing to him - not even in his youth - he just wasn't as mean as everyone made him out to be. Plus those puppy-dog eyes really were hard on the soul.

The coffee was from late that evening. Cameron had made a fresh pot around seven, right before she had gone home for the night. Pouring some into a disposable cup, House put it in the microwave and set the timer for forty-five seconds.

As the machine lit up and the hot plate turned repetitively in a circle, House kept his gaze fixed on it, physically resisting the urge to turn around and look through the glass walls that separated his office from the room he was currently standing in.

The relationship he had with Chase was more complex than with either of his other fellows. Chase had been with him the longest, his reasoning behind hiring him in the first place was the most complex and - while House hated to admit it - he had the most respect for the young Aussie.

He believed, that out of every employee he'd ever had, Chase the most likely to come out this experience with enough under his belt to go into Diagnostics on his own and be successful at it.

Admitting that to himself, accepting it as the truth, in no way meant that the young Robert Chase was ready to leave the comfort and safety of House's fellowship now. Not yet. So, as the microwave beeped to completion and the crippled old man reached in and took the cup with one hand, balancing his weight on his cane with the other, he made his way back into his own office - thoroughly set on making sure that it wasn't Chase's intention to run away.

"Drink." House shoved the cup into his hand before sitting down again, removing the bottle of Scotch from the countertop as he did so.

"No more happy juice for you." He explained as Chase's eyes followed his movements. House twisted the cap back on the bottle and shoved it onto a nearby bookshelf. "Drink."

At the second command, Chase followed the order and took a sip. He cringed as he lowered the cup from his lips. "That's horrible."

"What'd you expect," he griped, "_Fresh _coffee?"

"God forbid." A sarcastic rolling of the eyes was tolerated only because the younger man continued to drink the reheated beverage.

A few long, silent minutes later, Chase looked up again. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Great." House groaned. This is what he got for giving a damn. "Garbage can's to your left."

Eyeing the object in question, Chase nodded, and then lowered the cup to the desk. His eyes followed the movement of his hand but didn't look back up again after it was complete.

"You know..." House broke the silence when he could no longer take it. "I'm not that great at guessing games."

There was something to his tone. An air around the way he said those words that spoke subtly of underlying worry, genuine concern, mismatched feelings of dis-ease. The younger man eyed his wearily and picked up his coffee cup again before speaking.

"It doesn't really matter all that much, does it?" Chase said sullenly, eyeing the Styrofoam cup in his hand. "What's wrong, what's going on…nothing really matters."

"It matters if it interferes with your life." House pointed out, taking a deep breath and debating on pulling the Scotch back over and taking a drink himself. He settled on simply popping a Vicodin.

"Even if it interferes in a good way?" Chase looked almost hopeful, and still noticeably drunk.

House rolled his eyes as he slipped the pill bottle back into his pocket. "Drunk in my office at three in the morning is _not _good in any way." He waited for a long time for Chase to reply to that and when he didn't, the older man began to feel marginally more uncomfortable than he already was. "Are you sure you don't want me to call Wilson?"

"Why do you always do that?" Chase took another sip of his god awful coffee. "Get Wilson to do all the hard stuff?"

"Because I do all the logical stuff." House answered honestly and – of course – logically. He wasn't sure why he was giving into these insane ramblings, but he was, and for the moment he decided to leave it at that.

Chase grinned, and if there was something deeper than drunken amusement residing behind it, House didn't give it too much attention. "You two go together." He said. And if there was something deeper than logical deduction in his words, House didn't give that too much consideration either. "You know, a lot of people don't get it."

"Get…" He stopped because he really didn't want to know.

But Chase apparently felt the need to tell him anyway. "Why you two are friends. No one really gets it. Well…I think Cuddy does. Stacy seemed to. Cameron and Foreman might. I'm sure Wilson does-"

"Getting to a point?" House interrupted, not liking how this conversation had turned to a drunken psychoanalysis of his relationships.

"There are rumors." Chase laughed, and then hiccupped before going on. "That you two are gay, that you have some insane blackmail over him, that he'd a masochist, that one of you used to be a woman…"

"What?" That last one at least he'd never heard before.

Chase looked thoughtful. "Maybe that was one of the nurses."

"Yeah," And if his tone was almost soft, well…he wasn't considering much tonight anyway. "I know that story."

"But most people just don't why you're friends." House waited patiently for him to go on. "But I get it. You two just…fit together. You balance each other out. It's like…an equation…or something."

"Deep." House said, and his tone held a bit of sarcasm but mostly something else that he himself couldn't name. "But it still really has nothing to do with why you're here."

Chase looked up blankly.

"In my office, mooching my booze. Focus," he tapped his cane on the floor a few times, "We've been over this."

"I didn't want to go home." He said and drank yet some more coffee.

"To your girlfriend."

"I wanted to be alone." Chase nodded.

House narrowed his eyes, still very intent on figuring this out. "So you came here when you knew I'd be here…that makes sense."

Even in his Scotch-induced haze the younger man could hear the question buried in that statement.

"You're not like other people." Was all he offered as an answer.

"Well…" House tapped his fingers on his knee, "I've been hearing that since I was three."

Chase smiled. "I don't really know…what I…I just…" suddenly his complexion grew rather pale. "…shit…"

And he threw his body towards the garbage can in just enough time to make the vomit land there. House cringed openly. Doctor or not – the sound of another person puking was never one he would grow accustomed to.

But he waited patiently for Chase to finish. He would not go and comfort the younger man, but he also wouldn't use this as an opportunity to grab his things and make a dash for the door.

He wondered absently what the middle ground between total bastard and Jimmy-like Saint was called. If it had a name at all; as people generally looked over these emotions and decisions.

There were really only two standings in life that got you recognition; kind, good, and pure or mean, cold and cruel. House was typically pegged as the latter. But the events of tonight were pointing teasingly towards that middle ground that never received notice.

"Sorry, 'bout that." Chase mumbled as he rose to sit back in the chair. "I think I spilt some coffee."

"I'll call a janitor tomorrow." Because no way in hell was _he _dealing with the garbage can of puke. "Go get your jacket."

Chase just looked at him; head tilted to one side in an almost endearing manner as it made him look like a child. "Huh?"

"Jacket, bag," House looked under his desk briefly and rolled his eyes when he looked back up at the Intensivist. "Shoes."

"I told you…" Chase sounded sad and almost desperate in that moment, and House hated that he could feel himself giving into that yet again. "…I don' wanna go home."

"Well, you're not sleeping here." He snapped. "Just get your crap and let's go."

Chase eventually followed the order – albeit sullenly – and House watched him move about. He was sloppy, uncoordinated and supremely dejected. The Diagnostician watched with well-hidden sympathy and made up his mind about how exactly to handle this problem.

God help him if Wilson ever found out about this.

Fin.


	6. Tragedy

**Summary**: An alternate ending to the shooting in 'No Reason.' Character Death.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category:** Angst/Drama

**Timeline:** Season two. Obviously.

**Rated**: K+

Tragedy

When the man walked into the office unannounced and without hesitancy, Dr. House barely gave him a parting glance. He was far too focused on his new case. The man with the enormously swollen tongue trumped easily the man with the bad suit and eerily calm voice.

"Which one of you is Dr. House?" The doctor in question replied without thinking, because that's just what he did.

"Skinny brunette."

He turned around only when the man said, "No, that's Dr. Cameron."

"I'm skinny." House pointed out, giving the man in his office a considerable more amount of attention than before. "How did you know her name?"

"I was a patient of yours." Foreman was standing incredibly close to House. Chase and Cameron were still at the table, eyeing this scene with a mixture of unease and impatience. They'd all seen House deal with strangers before and - by and large - it never went too great.

Because House used sarcasm as a crutch when he didn't know what else to do. "Oh, well, if you want to leave the chocolates downstairs-"

A gun became visible from the folds of this unnamed man's jacket. One deafening crack later and their boss was stumbling backwards, propelled from the force of the gunshot, through the whiteboard and against the bookcase. He was on the ground but leaning his head up slightly, staring almost dumbfounded as all his team started to move at once.

It would never be completely clear whether they were acting on the instincts of doctors or - if over the last few years - they'd come to need and respect House so much, that their first instinct was to save him, despite all consequences to themselves.

The gunman saw their movements and halted them long before they had a chance to figure it out. "Stay! Stay away from him." And Chase, Cameron and Foreman froze. A gun being waved in their direction was not something they could easily argue with.

Cameron had her arms crossed over her chest, Foreman's eyes were as wide as Chase had ever seen them and he himself could feel his heartbeat in his throat. Guns were bad. Guns were loud. He wondered what House had done to this man. He wondered who this man was. He wondered what Wilson would say when he found out about this. He wondered if Cuddy would allow House to take time off clinic duty. He wondered what would happen to the swollen-tongue patient if House was too unconconcious to fix him. He wondered why he couldn't think about anything less trivial.

"Shocking, isn't it?" The shooter had sneered down at House, and Chase wondered when he'd turned around. "Who'd wanna hurt you?"

The second gunshot fired and House's eyes closed as his head finally fell backwards. That's when it should have ended, Chase thought, that's when the curtain should have lowered. He could wait to find out what happened next - he didn't want to be a part of it.

Only he was, intricately, a part of it. Because after the second shot was fired the shooter stormed out of the office and Chase felt his adrenalin coursing, his thoughts focusing and his instincts taking over before he had a chance to argue with them.

He was an Intensivist, after all. This was what he was trained to do. This is what he'd been doing his whole life - putting his own emotions on hold in the heat of the moment.

He was beside his bleeding boss before he made up his mind about exactly what it was he was going to do. But that was okay - because he trusted himself more in these moments than he did at any other time in his life.

His hands reached immediately for the wound that was streaming the most blood - the one on his neck -and quickly began applying pressure. Soon he was soaked with blood, and thought absently that House had no blood-transmitted diseases, and that was good. It would make the ER's job a lot easier.

He noticed that Cameron and Foreman were still not moving. Foreman was poised in a half- ready to run position and Chase knew he had to stop the black man before he went bolting out the door after the gunman.

"Foreman!" He all but bellowed. "Call security." He took another look at House. The older man's face was quickly draining of color; his heartbeat under Chase's hand was slowing dramatically. He changed his mind. "Call the ER first. We need a gurney, paddles and an OR. Stat!"

Foreman was already at the phone and Chase knew that part was done at least. "Cameron," he shifted his attention. "I need you over here. Get a towel and help me stop the blood flow."

Cameron nodded, eyes wide and filled with tears. She looked around desperately for some sort of towel, but Chase didn't let his sight dwell on her for too long. He focused on House. Moving his body so he was lying flat on the ground. "C'mon you miserable bastard." He mumbled. "You're not dying yet."

Both Cameron and Chase were by his side moments later. Cameron pressed a pillow to House's stomach and handed Chase something soft and cloth that he immediately placed under his hand and on House's neck. By this time, both his colleagues were kneeling beside him.

"Gurney should be here any second." Foreman mumbled and raised his hand, placing it on the other side of his Boss' neck. "Chase..." the black man sounded almost lost, confused. "There's no heartbeat."

The Australian man felt his own heart clench and he pushed away Foreman's hand with his bloodied one. It took him a second or two to locate the right area, but not long at all to come to the same conclusion.

"Shit." He mumbled. "Shit. Shit. Shit." Cameron was crying and Foreman was starting CPR movements on House's chest.

"Stop!" Cameron shouted. "He's losing too much blood."

"He's not breathing!" Foreman shouted back. "We can get him more blood, we can't get him a new brain if his gets permanently damaged from lack of oxygen!"

And if it was Foreman's harsh tone or the logic he'd put into his argument, Chase didn't know, but soon Cameron backed off and let Foreman finish the compressions.

Chase checked the heartbeat again. "No," he shook his head even as he was prying open one of House's eyelids. "Unresponsive."

Foreman was about to go back to doing CPR when the gurney - fully equipped with an emergency medical team - barged into the office.

Chase was the only one that stayed on the ground with them as they worked. "Too unstable to move." He shouted. "I need a bag."

He went about pumping air into his boss's lungs for some amount of time he just couldn't accurately measure as the other doctors flurried about around him. "We need to get him into surgery!" Chase shouted. He had blood up to his forearms by now, and probably some on his forehead from absently wiping away perspiration.

"No..." One of the gurney men looked at him sadly. "...we can't. He's dead."

"No he's not!" Chase shouted, but even as he did he knew he was wrong. And it wasn't soon before he was leaning back and staring at House's...lifeless...body...

Cameron was sobbing, Foreman had taken a seat on the floor, eyes wide but staring at nothing. Chase just kept his gaze on House. He thought about those sharp, inquisitive, judgmental, at times playful, bright blue eyes. He thought about the limp and the insults, the video games and the soap operas. He thought about House's rat - Steve McQueen and what would happen to him now.

He thought about his own father, and how if he could choose one, House would get up and walk away from this.

Then a cloth was pulled over his body respectively and they'd just began lifting him onto the gurney - to take him down to the morgue - when the door flew open again. Chase and Foreman didn't react at all, Cameron just cried harder.

Wilson and Cuddy were frozen in the doorway. Their eyes darted all over the place, and Chase's vision went slightly out of focus. He didn't want to be here for this.

"What happened?" It was the first time in a long time that Chase had heard a grown man close to tears.

Foreman was silent, Cameron kept sobbing, the ER guys were looking amongst themselves unsurely; so Chase spoke. His tone rang with hollow emptiness.

"...we lost him."

Fin.

A/N: Hey-o! This is the last one of these I had written when I started posting these, so...I'll try to keep writing, but it may be a bit now. Or it may be tomorrow - my muse works in mysterious ways. I want to thank everyone who's been reviewing and encourage those who haven't been to start (I need those reviews like House needs Vicodin) and also, I've been toying with the idea of attempting - maybe - to write a House/Chase slash fic. Gah. I feel kinda wrong just typing that, but I've been reading that pairing and I have to admit, I kinda like it. Anyway, I was just wondering what y'all would think about that. Because if it's a really hated idea, then I won't bother trying. But I am a little curious...and now I think I'm rambling. Just review already:)


	7. 2 am

**Summary**: Inspired by 'Informed consent.' Chase is a believer in doctor-assisted suicide.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category**: General/Angst

**Timeline:** Pre-series.

**Rated**: K+

2 a.m.

"I don't want to live anymore, doctor." The broken and battered middle-aged man croaked at Stephen Spencer.

Robert Chase stood soundlessly in the background. Maybe, he thought, if they forgot he was here, then he could stay and see how this played out.

Or maybe - and this thought was a little more desperate and had more to do with the tightening in his chest and heart – just maybe, this wouldn't be happening.

"I'm terminal," their patient croaked again, "I've got-" several hacking coughs accompanied by some less than appealing white phlegm brought up from his chest, "-I've got nothing left to live for."

Chase thought of the twenty-year-old woman asleep in the waiting room two floors below them and he was speaking before he knew that he actually wanted to. "What about your daughter?"

He could tell he was upset – more than marginally disturbed – by this. From the way his accent came out so thick and strong. He had completely detached himself from his emotions, so he was looking for physical clues.

The accent was one. The shaking hands were another. The nausea and teeth grinding topped the chart, and he was sure that if he were to look in a mirror he'd be a lovely shade of whiter than pale.

Then again, this wasn't about him.

"She doesn't need to-" Hacking cough, a hand raised automatically to his mouth, "-see me like this anymore."

"She's so young." Chase all but whispered. In truth, the daughter in question wasn't that much older than Chase was. She was twenty. He was twenty-five. He'd watched his own mother die when he'd been only seventeen.

None of it was fair.

"Dr. Chase." His boss spoke to him in a warning tone. Chase knew that tone. He knew he wasn't even supposed to be here.

Mac Douglas had stopped being his patient the moment he was transferred out of ICU, but because Chase was the man he was, he'd followed up with this patient. And because Dr. Spencer was the boss that he was, he'd allowed it.

Neither man had expected it to go this far.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled and stepped back slightly, hoping that the shadows of the hospital room would somehow cloak him with invisibility.

"It's time for me to go," Mac wheezed and somehow he managed to make that wheeze sound pleading, pathetic and sad all at once. "Just…put me out…" he started coughing again, more violently than before, but that was okay, as everyone in the room knew exactly what he'd been going to say.

"The nurse will bring your meds at three," Spencer said officially, logically, as he placed the clipboard back at the foot of the bed.

Chase glanced at the clock on instinct. Half past midnight.

The two doctors left the room before their patient could say anything more.

"What are you going to do?" Chase wasted absolutely no time in questioning him once they were alone in the hallway. "He wants you to-"

"I know exactly what he wants, Dr. Chase." Spencer snapped at him, but in a way that wasn't intended as a rebuke.

Chase had been working at this hospital – with this man – for just over two years now, and he knew how to read him. So he remained silent and waited.

"We're doctors." He sighed and suddenly seemed very tired, worn and old. "We're supposed to do no harm."

Chase waited. He knew there was a loophole coming. Dr. Spencer was full of loopholes.

"And sometimes…do no harm…comes down to…fulfilling certain requests."

Chase was silent. On some level – some logical level – he'd been expecting that. But his heart clenched and his stomach churned at the implications. His throat was dry and his words came out scratchy and so very Australian.

"You're…going to do it?" He swallowed and it made no difference in the presentation of his words. "You're going to kill him?"

"I'm going to help him." Spencer sighed and Chase wondered why he'd never noticed how old his boss was before now.

There was a moment of intense silence that meant very little to them. They were here and the decision had been made. There wasn't much left.

"I'm going to be back at two," Spencer said. "To check on Mr. Douglas." His tone was so normal that, if Chase had been a stupider individual, he might have been able to believe that he'd misunderstood their words of a few moments prior.

"If you want to help me, Dr. Chase," Spencer looked at him closely and Chase stood silent and still. "Be here at two."

Chase nodded in recognition of the offer. He hadn't agreed or declined.

"It is in our nature, as doctors," Spencer said quietly, "To want to care for patients. When they get better it means we've done our job and _that_ is the most extreme satisfaction that once can feel. It's why many enter into this field."

That hadn't been why Chase had become a doctor, but he understood what the older man was saying and nodded all the same.

"But along with the pride and satisfaction that comes with being a doctor…you have to learn that there will be strife."

Chase nodded again and watched as Spencer deflated slightly, seemingly done with that speech. The elder doctor clapped his young fellow on the back and sighed. "Never read philosophy textbooks," he advised. "They screw with your head."

Chase nodded and smiled despite himself. He knew they were done for the moment.

o0oo0o

He found himself in the chapel because…well, that's just where he went.

When patients died under his care, when he got phone calls from his father, when he thought about his mother, when certain anniversaries passed by…this is where he went.

He'd stopped believing in God long ago. Well, maybe _stopped_ wasn't the right word. Because he'd spent so much time and energy and put so much of his heart and soul into forcing himself to believe that there was indeed a higher power out there, he doubted that that would ever be completely gone from him.

It was his faith in God that had demolished over the years. His concern about Him. His love and trust. Because if he were to really question it, he knew that he'd never fully be able to stop believing.

Just like a child can never stop loving their parents. No matter how much evil they'd done – family was eternal. You could have all the hate in the world for your parents and still love them at least a little.

Chase knew this too well.

And it was exactly how he felt about God.

But once upon a time, he'd had such utter devotion for the entity, that he would have never even considered doing what he was about to do.

Now, however, he was a different person. Or perhaps, a more complicated version of the one he'd already been.

It really was hard to tell sometimes.

But he knew that he'd gone to the chapel tonight not because he felt guilty or needed redemption.

No, he'd come here to say a prayer.

He lit the tiny candle with the long match and whispered, "For Mac." Then blew out the match and bowed his head.

The world rang with silence.

o0oo0o

It took mere moments for the monitor to flat line.

Spencer had used a large dose. Larger than even most doctor-assisted suicide guidelines – if there were any – would recommend.

Chase's boss had grown fonder of this man than even Chase himself had, and he didn't want to cause him any undo suffering.

Mac had said, "Thank you," when they'd walked in and Spencer had held up the syringe, smiling sadly. And, "Tell Amy I love her."

Chase nodded, clenched his teeth and waited.

Less than a minute later, Mac Douglas was no longer a part of this world.

Spencer lowered the morphine syringe and bit his lip. He didn't turn around, but Chase had the sneaking suspicion that his eyes held tears.

Emotions weren't supposed to coincide with the actions of a doctor.

But really, who were they trying to kid?

The monitor stopped making noise and Chase heard Spencer take a deep breath. "This was better." He said, trying to assure himself far more than his underling. "This was right."

"I know." Chase spoke quietly. And he did. _Do no harm,_ at some point, had to mean putting an end to suffering.

If there really was a God out there, and He didn't understand that…well, then Chase figured the whole world would be better off atheistic.

"Go home, Dr. Chase," Dr. Spencer turned around and smiled at him slightly. "Go enjoy your weekend."

"I will." The younger man nodded but knew there was more he needed to say. "But I want to be the one to tell the daughter."

"Why?" Spencer asked immediately, because no one ever _wanted _that responsibility.

Chase just shrugged, but deep down he knew.

He needed some redemption after all.

Fin.


	8. Stories

**Summary**: Chase meets the most interesting man in the clinic. So of course he has to consult House. And House just has to consult Wilson.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category**: General/Humor.

**Timeline:** The Duckling Era.

**Rated**: K+

**A/N**: I dedicate this story to a guy I used to know. Whose name I shall not speak just incase anyone who works in a Psych ward might be reading this. This guy - who I actually knew for seven years – is, in essence, my OC in this. Trust me readers, fans, and random skimmers…you will enjoy this. I sure as hell did.

Stories

"Okay Mr. Fleming," Chase began civilly enough when he walked into Exam Room Two. "What can I do for you today?"

The well-built, twenty something white male looked up at him and smiled pleasantly. Chase thought absently that he didn't really understand why his boss hated the clinic so much. Sure, it was a bit boring, but not nearly the horror story that House so often made it out to be.

"Oh, nothing much," he waved a hand casually, still smiling politely, "I was just hoping to get a prescription for sleeping pills."

Chase pulled a pen out of his doctor's coat and made a note on Mr. Fleming's chart while asking, "And why do you want this?"

"I just have a hard time falling asleep during the day," he explained, and Chase looked up with only a slight frown. _Probably works third shift, _he thought logically. "It was never a problem when I was younger, but now…I don't know." He laughed slightly. "There's just so much noise during daylight hours, don't you think?"

"Sure," Chase agreed because that was always just so much easier. "Third shift job, I take it?"

"Oh, no," Mr. Fleming laughed. "I mean, _yes _technically, I have a night job, but I can't be awake during the day. Even doing so now is causing me a lot of stress. Some physical discomfort."

"Uh huh," Chase nodded and slowly put his pen back into his pocket, studying this man very closely. "And why is that?"

Mr. Fleming looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if Chase were missing something incredibly important.

Then he spoke in a logical and calm voice. "Because I'm a vampire."

o0oo0o

"House," Chase entered the diagnostic conference room in a flurry. His boss and his two colleagues looked up from what they'd been doing. "I need you down in the clinic for a consult."

Cameron and Foreman both stared at him as if he were absolutely insane for even joking about such a thing. House eyed him squarely. "Whatever the whining rugrat has can't be that-"

"Patient's not a child." Chase interrupted and tried his best not to start fidgeting. "I need a diagnostician."

"If you found us a new case," Cameron began, as if sensing this whole conversation was just leading somewhere bad, "Then admit him and give us the case file so we can-"

"He isn't going to be our patient." Chase cut her off, not taking his eyes away from House. "Fifty bucks says this is interesting."

"Unfair bet." House protested at once. "You obviously know something I don't."

"Well, then just trust me." Chase leveled his gaze and challenged his boss with a stare.

House sighed but stood up. "This better be worth it."

o0oo0o

"So tell me Mr. Fleming," House was sitting on a stool in the patient exam room, studying said patient far too intently. "How are you out right now? Isn't sunlight a no-no?"

"That's a common misconception." The young man either didn't get or didn't care that House was so obviously mocking him.

And in his defense, the older doctor did sound very honestly intrigued. Chase just stood by the door and smirked. This, in his book, qualified as a pretty good day.

Of course, it would have been even better if House would have taken the bet.

"Sunlight doesn't melt us or turn us to ash," he spoke logically, "Just makes us extremely uncomfortable. Very susceptible to sunburns."

"Hmm," House nodded thoughtfully. "What about the stake through the heart? If I stabbed you with my cane right now, would you spontaneously combust?"

Mr. Fleming eyed the object in question rather wearily. "Yes. That's accurate."

House gripped his cane tighter and Chase could tell he was holding back a grin. "Alright, how about garlic? Do you guys eat pizza or…"

"Myth." Mr. Fleming shot down at once. "Personally, though, I'm not too fond of it."

"Right," House made another mark on the chart he was holding, and began again. "The sunflower seed thing?"

"It's true that as a vampire I do have a certain…urge…to count them when I see them." He seemed pained in admitting that. Which Chase could understand. After all, who wanted to spend their free time counting sunflower seeds? "But I can overcome it."

"Yes, alright." House made another eager note. "You suck people's blood?"

"Dr. House!" Their patient exclaimed, looking appalled. "We're not the soulless beings that _Buffy _and Anne Rice make us out to be. We're simply damaged people. I thought _you_ would be able to understand that."

Chase thought for a moment that the reference to his boss's limp might be a little too much for the older man, but, as always, House surprised him. "Fair enough." He nodded. "But do you sleep in a coffin?"

o0oo0o

"So…" Wilson eyed Mr. Fleming, House and then Chase with a confused, mildly entertained look on his face. "You think you're a vampire?"

Mr. Fleming openly scowled at the Oncologist. "No, I don't _think _I'm a vampire. I _am _a vampire. You're just too goddamn closed minded to ever believe anything that doesn't fit inside your neat little socially acceptable conventions."

Wilson just tilted his neck to one side in an annoyed-trying-not-to-act-annoyed gesture. "I can see why you've been getting along so well with Dr. House." He mumbled.

The doctor in question just smirked proudly at his best friend. Chase tried to disguise a snort of amusement as a cough and failed miserably.

"Well, Mr. Fleming," Wilson took a deep breath and spoke as if their patient wasn't glaring at him intently. "I don't think you…have cancer."

"Of course I don't." The vampire rolled his eyes at them, and every single doctor in the room had to bite back some amused sound or another. "I came in for _sleeping pills. _What are you guys, nuts?"

"Yeah," House answered before anyone else got the chance, "We're nuts. You drink pig blood, and we're nuts."

"I told you we don't feed off humans." Mr. Fleming repeated his words from earlier, sounding annoyed. "Not anymore. That was my great-grandfather's generation. This generation – my generation – we're civil. We want to be a part of your world."

"Yeah," Chase spoke up for the first time since Wilson joined their little meeting, "That's why you work as a butcher."

"It's convenient." He snapped. He wasn't so dense that he couldn't understand why the three doctors thought this was entertaining.

"I'm sure it is." House agreed, nodding along.

"Look, I'm sure this has been very fun for all of you." The vampire started tiredly. Wilson and Wilson alone tried to interject- with something understanding, no doubt – but Mr. Fleming was having none of that. "But if I could just get my prescription. I'd like to get some sleep before the sun goes down."

"Sure," House took the lead, standing up and gesturing for his friend and underling to do the same. "We just have to get one more doctor for you. But really, it's been great meeting you."

And with that, House left the exam room. Wilson paused before following him. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it and just smiled tightly before exiting the room.

"You understand what this is like for me, don't you?" Mr. Fleming looked at him almost pleadingly and Chase just nodded.

"I'm Australian. Of course I do."

Then he left too.

"We need a psych referral for the patient in Exam Room Two." House was telling

Brenda.

"Well…" Wilson clamped the back of his neck with his hand after the nurse nodded and went to make the call. "That was…"

"Friggin' awesome." House grinned and it was a genuine one.

"A waste of forty minutes," Wilson pressed his lips together tightly. "Was what I was going to say."

"I told you it was interesting." Chase grinned.

"Next time just say, 'Hey, dude thinks he's a vampire.' It'll get a better response." House was mocking, but in a really entertained sort of way.

"You wouldn't have believed him." Wilson took the words out of Chase's mouth so the younger man just crossed his arms and looked challengingly at the man who signed his paychecks.

"I would have been curious." House argued.

"I still am." Wilson said frankly. "Who honestly believes that they're a vampire? And manages to actually function in the world?"

"Wonder what his friends say," Chase mused.

"You think he has friends?" House questioned. "I mean, ones that _don't _think they're vampires too?"

"Who knows?" Wilson spoke up. "If he does, though, I'd really like to talk to them."

"Me too." Chase agreed. "They're bound to have some interesting stories."

House just laughed as the three men walked down the hospital hallway and back to their respective jobs.

"Who could _not _have a story after meeting that guy?"

Fin.


	9. Seize the Day

**Summary**: House and Wilson are at the park. Fluffy.

**Pairings:** House/Wilson Slash.

**Category**: General/Romance

**Timeline:** Sometime in the Duckling Era. I don't really reference anything.

**Rated**: K+

Seize the Day

"Just…don't think about it so much." Greg House sighed and tilted his head back, letting the late afternoon sun beat down on his face, neck and forearms. "You just have to feel it, let it-"

There was a loud crash and the cynical doctor looked up, bright dots appearing before his eyes from where the sun had been. And there was James Wilson, flat on his ass in the middle of the sidewalk; collared shirt with rolled up sleeves and black dress pants now undoubtedly dirty.

"Yeah." House snorted despite himself. "Just like that."

His best friend scowled at him as he stood up, brushing himself off as he went. House thought absently that his ruffled appearance was highlighted even further by the fact that he wasn't wearing a tie.

"Excuse me if I've never ridden a damn skateboard before," the Oncologist growled, snatching said item from the ground with a flourish.

The crippled man grinned as Wilson sat down next to him at the picnic table and lowered his head dejectedly. "I suck at this."

House nodded. "Yup. You really do."

"Thanks," the younger doctor dragged out that word, rolling his eyes and trying to hide the fact that his lip twitched in want of becoming a small smirk.

Had they not been out in public, House thought he might have done something uncharacteristic, like patting Jimmy on the back or grabbing his hand in his own.

But since they were in public, far away from the hospital, to be fair, but in public all the same, he smartly decided against it. He settled instead for just spreading out on the top of the table until he was lying down and almost comfortable.

"Just try again," he started spinning his cane in lazy circles above his head after he'd re-pushed up the sleeves on his long-sleeve T-shirt. "You'll get it."

"This has never been my strong suit," Wilson mumbled even as he was pulling himself off the bench seat and standing. "I've never been athletic. Even in school, I never had the coordination do to more than run or lift weights."

House snorted when he pictured his friend running track or in a gym lifting bell-bars. Wilson's teenage self came complete with acne and long, dangly limbs in his imagination. "I can believe that."

"Ass," Wilson breathed under his breath as he got back on the skateboard and pushed with his foot hard enough to gain momentum. He was doing pretty well, House conceded, until he had to swerve suddenly to avoid a crack in the sidewalk.

His arms failed in a comical windmill motion as he lost his balance and landed gracelessly in the grass to his right. House watched as he tried to get up, failed, and then to decided to just lay there, letting his appendages flop down beside him dejectedly.

House was smiling broadly by the time he pulled himself up from the picnic table and hobbled over to where his friend was laying. "Wanna just buy your patient a stuffed bear and call it a draw?"

Wilson groaned, lifting the heels of his hands to his eye sockets and rubbing hard. House gingerly lowered himself to the ground next to where he was still sprawled out, silently giving the younger man props for at least landing in the shade.

"Yeah…" he finally sighed. "Kid can draw his own blood and I can't learn how to ride a lousy skateboard."

House played with a strand of grass absently. "You were standing up too straight; you're supposed to keep closer to the ground."

"You told me that," Wilson sighed and sounded tired, "But when I did that, I felt like I was gonna fall over."

"Yeah, but you didn't," House pointed out.

Wilson rolled his eyes before shutting them and lifting one arm so he could tuck it behind his head. The other, somewhat unexpectedly, came out and wrapped around House's forearm.

"We're in public," the older man pointed out when it became clear what he wanted.

"We're nowhere near the hospital," he countered, and tugged until House had no choice but to lean backwards, his head falling somewhat expectedly onto Jimmy's shoulder.

The Diagnostician took a few moments to get comfortable, shifting his leg a bit, moving his arm so it wasn't stuck between them, putting up a mental block so he could ignore the fact that he and his male lover were now lying together in public. Not only were they putting themselves on display, they were being romantic.

If Wilson's body heat, and his hand playing lightly with strands of his hair, didn't feel so damn good, than the other man wouldn't have allowed anything like this to occur.

"So, how'd you learn to ride that thing?" Wilson kicked his foot in the general direction of the skateboard and House could feel him glaring.

"I don't know," the older man sighed contently and closed his eyes. "Some kid just asked me to ride with him one day and I said yes. It wasn't that hard."

"Where were you?" His lover inquired lightly. House knew that, for whatever reason, Wilson liked to hear tales from House's childhood.

"Uh…" the older man tried to think back to that rainy, humid day and the kid with whom he'd befriended. "I was about eleven, twelve, so…probably Japan."

He felt Wilson nodding and a slight breeze washed over them and the sun was going down behind them and House felt comfortable and content so he kept talking. "My dad was on leave; my mom was hosting a party, or something, so I didn't have to be home right after school. I was just wandering around and this kid from my base saw me."

"Sounds nice," Wilson mused, running his hand gently through his lover's thinning hair still.

"Anytime my dad wasn't around was good." House snorted.

The Oncologist, House could tell, wanted to push that statement, as he'd never gotten an in-depth explanation of his relationship with his dad, but – luckily enough for both of them – he chose not to.

"Maybe I should try again," Wilson sighed; his words came out with no ambition behind them. "I mean, how hard can it really be?"

"I broke my arm skateboarding once." House shared, though he hadn't intended to.

Wilson's hand stopped and the Diagnostician could feel his hot breath on his head when he snorted deeply. "And you're telling me this _now_?"

"You didn't ask," he said flippantly, but couldn't hold back a grin. "Besides, as long as you stay away from Vodka, undercurrents and West Virginia, I don't think you'll be able to mimic that particular set of circumstances."

"…do I even wanna know?"

House shook his head back and forth, intentionally prompting his lover to start moving his hand again – which he did - while asking, "How old were you then?"

"Twenty-two," House grinned when Wilson chuckled.

"I guess I'll tell Jake that he wins," Wilson sighed eventually, but House could hear the grin in his voice. "I think you'd like this kid."

"I doubt it." The cynic grunted.

"He'd like you," Wilson amended. "You should meet him."

"Wilson," House said warningly. Since they'd gotten together, there had been several rocky moments and a few fights, all prompted by his lover's need to…_help _him. Try to make him adapt, become friendlier.

The younger man sighed. "I know," he said tiredly, and by now, that was probably true. "But maybe, just for a second, you could drop by his room? He's fifteen and he doesn't have a dad in the picture."

House gritted his teeth, "I've already got an employee with daddy issues, I don't need your patients too."

"Chase isn't dying." Wilson pointed out, his tone was an attempt at light, non-confrontational.

House thought about it for a moment, and deduced logically that the key to any relationship was always picking your battles. "Maybe," he conceded.

"Great," his voice was bordering on jubilant and House could practically feel the smile he was sporting.

"Oh, shut up." He grumbled and rolled his eyes when Wilson laughed. "Let's make out or something."

House pulled himself up slightly so he could look at his lover's face. After so many years of friendship and –now – so many months of a more personal relationship, Wilson was much more adapt at keeping up with House.

So when his lover spoke bluntly of making out in public, Wilson didn't reel back and blush; he grinned and said, "Well, we are sittin' under a tree."

"K-I-S-S-I-"

House got interrupted from his perfectly harmonized melody by the full lips of his young lover. He wasn't complaining, though. No, he was kissing back and trying not to smile.

Because it'd been a long time since he'd been this damn... not-miserable.

Fin.


	10. We All Float On

**Summary**: I really didn't mean for almost every single one of these prompts to be about the father/son relationship between House and Chase…but here we are again.

**Pairings:** None. I don't think I can ever do a House/Chase slash. So don't expect to see one.

**Category**: General/Drama

**Timeline:** The Duckling Era.

**Rated**: T

We All Float On

The scene was bitterly surreal.

Chase could hear the rain assaulting the windows from outside, he could hear his heart beating, hear his shallow breathing. He could hear all his thoughts, but he couldn't focus on one; couldn't develop a steady stream of conscious attention.

And then there was House.

The older man's face was set in a deep scowl. He still had one hand raised in the air, holding Chase's personal coffee mug just out of his reach. The Intensivist had stopped reaching for it but his boss still held it high. Frozen in place.

There wasn't much that could be said. At least nothing that would be appropriate in this particular set of circumstances, but Chase longed for the silence to dissipate. For House to say something, anything at all.

Because he knew it wasn't his place to. So he waited.

o0oo0o

Greg House – in the hopes of avoiding situations like the one he currently found himself in – had never had children. Admittedly, this decision was based on a little more than just the want of avoiding awkward moments.

He'd considered having kids when he'd been with Stacy, they'd even talked about it once and it'd been the first time in his adult life that he'd ever thought about offspring. In his youth – when his father was at his worst – he'd vowed that he'd never procreate. _Just in case. _

But then he'd grown up, fallen in love and lived for a while in this window of happiness. And of course, that didn't last. The infarction had ruined everything, he pushed Stacy away and that had been the end of that dream.

So if there was one thing that was certain in his life and in this world -assuming Cuddy never asked for a particular favor– it was that Greg House would never be a father.

Which begged the question, why the hell was he feeling so damn…_paternal? _

o0oo0o

"Vodka?" House's voice was oddly calm compared to the look in his eyes. His face screamed so many things- so many emotions, more than anyone would ever even consider House capable of – but his tone was almost careless.

Chase took a deep breath, swallowed and nodded, "Yes."

"Irish coffee," House nodded and slowly that hand lowered, the mug now in front of him casually. "I could fire you for this."

Those words created a vortex of emotion in the younger man. Immediately he felt so incredibly desperate, regretful, sorry and scared that he felt tears pricking at his eyes and he could scarcely breathe.

He could see that House saw his panic. The older man chose to do nothing about it for several long, lingering moments.

"Have you seen any patients yet today?" He eventually asked, and although it wasn't in the least bit comforting, Chase felt himself calming just a little.

"No," he shook his head. "No, I…was going to ask for the day off."

"You _came in _to ask for time _off_?" House snorted and that, Chase felt, was pretty damn comforting.

"I guess I…wasn't really thinking straight." He mumbled. Comforted or not he couldn't bring himself t look at his boss for more than a few seconds at a time.

"You were drunk. Buzzed, at least," he diagnosed like the pro Diagnostician that he was. "You still are. You're just in shock right now."

Chase nodded, silently agreeing and praying and biting his lip and wishing and wanting all at once. "I'm sorry," he eventually managed and, even though he couldn't maintain eye contact for more than a moment, he knew that House knew that he was sincere.

"You're an alcoholic."

Spoken so bluntly like that, Chase had to remember his mother. How many times had he said those exact same words to her? How many times had he used that voice – the voice House was using right now? Calm and factual. He'd wanted to present her with the truth in an adult manner.

It had never worked with his mother.

But then, he had never been House.

He hadn't admitted it to himself yet, he barely thought about at all on the good days, but he felt himself nodding. "Yeah, I think so."

House nodded too. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't at the same time.

Chase had a thought and was too drunk to not voice his opinions. "This isn't the same as you and your Vicodin."

He saw a brief look of surprise flash over the older man's face and Chase almost let himself feel proud. Before he remembered where he was going with this.

"You can be mad. You can call me a junkie. It's not the same. You're in pain." He spoke fast and hated himself in the same detached way that he saw himself most days.

"I'm guessing you are, too." And if Chase hadn't been standing right there, he never would have believed Greg House capable of – not only such words – but the soft voice in which he phrased them.

Years later even, when he looked back on it, he would think that he was drunker than either of them had really thought. Because surly that kind of misinterpretation could only come from excess amounts of alcohol.

He couldn't just let himself believe that House cared.

Chase swallowed thickly. He wanted to nod, but he couldn't. House saw the truth in his eyes anyway.

"Stop drinking." The words were nothing short of a demand, but he still managed them in an even tone. There was no room for debate here.

"Okay." Chase nodded and wished for the first time in a long time that he _wasn't _drunk. Because this isn't what he'd wanted. He didn't want to…disappoint House.

"I'm not going to fire you," the older man said shortly. "But if this happens again…"

Chase nodded. Neither needed to hear the end of that statement.

Then House nodded too. He limped over to the sink in the office and poured Chase's Vodka tainted coffee into the sink and turned on the water and washed everything away.

The young Australian man felt oddly cleansed when House came back and handed him the coffee mug. He took it and almost wanted to smile.

Instead he said, "I'll start going to A.A."

House nodded. "Good." But offered nothing more.

"I'm sorry," he said for lack of anything else to say. He had a feeling that would be his default for a while.

"You already said that." House stated plainly.

Chase nodded. He was uncomfortable. The alcohol that he'd already consumed that day was making him fuzzy and tired. House was looking at him like he was some kind of puzzle. Perhaps a puzzle that the older man just couldn't completely figure out. And Chase just wanted to go home.

They kept staring for a while and even though it was Chase that was exhausted and emotionally drained, it was House that broke their silence first.

"Do you need me to call you a cab?"

Chase sighed, he had never wanted to become this person – to become his mother. But here he was. Or rather, there he'd been. Because he had something that his mother never had. He had the will and the strength and the means to get over this.

"Yeah." He answered House. And for just a moment, despite the disease that plagued him, he knew that he was going to survive.

Fin.


	11. Children

**Summary**: House agrees to be Cuddy's sperm donor.

**Pairings:** Kinda Huddy, but not really.

**Category**: General

**Timeline:** After Tritter, but in the Duckling Era

**Rated**: K+

Children

When House agreed to be Cuddy's sperm donor, he wasn't thinking much more than 'she saved my life and then she saved my ass. I owe her.'

That lasted all of two weeks. Until Wilson found out.

"You what?" The Oncologist sputtered as House tossed this new revelation out casually over lunch one day at the hospital. And then, just incase the older man hadn't heard it the first time, "You _what_?"

"I go into a bathroom, jack off into a cup and then a nice doctor that doesn't get paid enough to do this job takes a-"

"I get that," Wilson barked, interrupting House's explanation. "Used the wrong infliction. How's this; _You're _what?"

"Ah," House nodded as if now it made sense. "Same answer still applies, but yes, _I _am doing this."

"Why?" His eyes weren't quite as wide anymore, but Wilson defiantly wasn't up to House's level of calm. The Diagnostician was casually munching on a French fry and wishing that the commercials on TV would end so he could watch General Hospital.

When House answered, it was almost automated. "I owe her."

"Maybe," Wilson bent his neck to one side, "But House…this is a kid."

"No," the older man shook his head, "this is a sperm donation."

"This…is gonna be a child." Wilson looked at him like he was explaining something his friend hadn't yet grasped. "If this works…Cuddy's gonna have your baby."

House scrunched up his nose. "No, she'll be having _her_ baby. I just helped out."

"House…" Wilson trailed off but didn't stay silent for long. "If this works, do you seriously think you won't be a part of it's life?"

House looked up blankly, all thoughts of General Hospital and French fries gone for the moment.

"I mean…" Wilson went on, "You work for Cuddy. You'll probably be paying child support. At some point the kid is gonna want to know who it's father is…do you really think you're not gonna be a part of it?"

House considered this from a logical perspective, and concluded, "So the kid knows me. I say 'Hi,' maybe teach it that everybody lies and how to diagnose a couple things. I'm not gonna be playing Daddy, Wilson."

The younger man just shook his head back and forth slowly again. "I really don't think you know what you're getting into."

o0oo0o

"I will not play daddy." House began the conversation in his usual manner – with absolutely no warning.

Cuddy looked up from her planner thing and narrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "No one's asking you to."

"I will not change diapers. I will not clean runny noses. I will not have the chat about the birds and the bees. I will not go to baseball games or ballet recitals." He took a step closer. "I'll meet it. Let it know where it got it's pretty blue eyes. I will not rearrange my life for this."

"Like your life is so great," Cuddy snapped, and House was certain he detected anger in those green eyes of hers. "I'm not asking you to do any of that. Whatever this is, right here, it's your freak out. Don't drag me into it."

House reeled back a little. "I'm just letting you know," he managed to sound just as harsh, even if his heart wasn't as into it anymore. "This wasn't anything more than a favor."

"Yes, House," she lowered her gaze again but the Diagnostician almost thought he heard something like regret or sadness in her next words. "I know."

o0oo0o

Chase had never cared much for rumors and gossip. The high society life he'd grown up with had pretty much turned him off of them at a young age. There was always some rumor circulating – and all too often it was about his family. His mother.

So no, Chase didn't like rumors. Yet, when he heard two nurses talking one afternoon as he was coming off a NICU rotation, he couldn't help but stop and listen.

Less than twenty minutes later and here he was, standing in his boss's office, staring at House as House stared back at him.

"Can I help you with something?" The older man finally spoke, narrowing his eyes in something halfway between interest and suspicion.

"Cuddy's pregnant with your love child?" Chase repeated the rumor he'd hear from the nurses back to the Diagnostician now.

House sighed heavily, raising one hand to his eyes and rubbing with his thumb and pointer finger. "Perfect," he muttered, seemingly to himself.

"So it's true?" Chase hadn't really believed it when he heard it. At least, he told himself logically that it was unlikely, but something about the way the nurses were talking, the confidence they seemed to have…he had to know. And now he did. "It's true? You're going to be a father."

"No," House dragged out the word, lowering his hand to his desk again. "I was a sperm donation. Nothing more." He took a deep breath. "And next time you hear anyone talking about it, tell them they're fired."

"So…" Chase was stuck on the older man's earlier words. "Cuddy's pregnant with your child, but you're not planning on…being a father."

"In case you missed it," House's voice was low and thick, almost growling. Chase wanted to step back, but didn't. "I'm an irresponsible, crippled, drug addict, alcoholic. I'm not exactly up for father of the year over here."

Chase saw something else in his eyes, something that he could almost identify but didn't want to because he thought he might know what it implied. He chose to speak calmly and with rationality, ignoring what might be a hidden meaning.

"An irresponsible, crippled, drug addict who spends his life saving lives and teaching other people how to save lives," Chase knew it wasn't his place to say any of this. It wasn't really his place to be here at all.

Trying to convince House that this was indeed a life-altering thing and that he really should be a part of it. This was Wilson's job. This was Cuddy's job. Hell, this was House's revelation to have.

Yet he was here.

"You forgot the alcoholic part," the older man pointed out, just like Chase had known he would.

House's blue eyes were dancing with curiosity and the Intensivist would give him his answer.

"I know alcoholics," he said gravely, remembering his mother. "You're anything but."

House studied him closely for a long moment and Chase would not back down from his gaze. He didn't know what he was trying to prove or figure out, but something inside of him told him that this was important.

But when House gave him a slight nod and told him, "go do my clinic hours." Chase nodded and left without another word.

He didn't know what had just happened or of he had changed or gained anything.

He supposed it would be a while before he did know.

o0oo0o

House showed up in Cuddy's office late one evening about a month after she'd confirmed her pregnancy to him. She still wasn't showing, but House figured it was only a matter of time now.

"What are you doing here?" She greeted, completely bemused.

House didn't blame her. He was usually out of the hospital by five, if not sooner. It was nearing eight now, yet he was still here. He'd been sitting in his office for several hours working up the balls to do this.

"I don't want to be just a sperm donor." He blurted, never one for dragging things out painfully.

Cuddy's eyes widened, but she didn't look quite as shocked as House had expected her to. He'd had this conversation with Wilson last week. Bastard must have given her a heads up.

"Then what do you want, House?" She asked after a few long moments. "What do you want?"

House thought of his own father and their time living in Japan. He thought of the pain that John House so often chose to inflict on his son and how many times House had sworn to himself that he'd never give himself a chance to repeat those mistakes.

Then he thought of his mother when they'd been living in Korea. When John was gone, fighting in the war and it was just him and Blythe. He thought of his mother and her love, tight hugs and homemade cooking. He thought of the conversations he could actually have with her and how she listened even when he was young and being stupid.

He thought of Crandall's stories of his home life. On his own since he was sixteen because his mother's newest boyfriend didn't want a teenager hanging around and his mother – in her drunken, doped up state – didn't either. He thought about how the daughter Crandall was now raising wasn't really his daughter but just maybe that was okay because it was a lie they both believed in.

He thought about being on the open road with his jazz band so many years ago. With no restrictions, no boundaries, no family. Nothing but freedom. He thought about how, after the infarction, he'd wished for nothing more than a car, a wallet full of cash and a six pack of Budweiser.

He thought of Wilson's family and how not screwed up – minus the missing brother – they were. He thought of the pregnant photographer and the baby he'd almost killed, the little finger that had reached out and touched his.

He thought about Stacy and their talks of children. He thought about Chase and even the other ducklings, who all had so much faith in him just because he could figure out puzzles. He thought about Chase and Rowan and knew yet again that there were so many varying degrees of abuse and neglect.

"House?" Cuddy spoke and the Diagnostician remembered where he was and why. "What do you want?"

What did he want? Greg House could think and figure all damn day with logic and numbers and cause and affect, but when it came down to it, he was shit out of luck when it came to emotions.

So when he finally answered it was the best he could come up with. He'd put all the factors together and come out with one single fact that would hopefully prove to be properly balanced in the end.

"I want a chance."

Fin.


	12. Charm

**Summary**: House and a clinic patient.

**Pairings:** None.

**Category**: General

**Timeline:** Doesn't really matter

**Rated**: K+

Charm

"You…don't know?" House repeated slowly, voice bordering on entertained but laced mostly with annoyance.

"Yes." The petite teenager nodded. "I don't know."

"Ah…" House looked through her file again, before looking back up at her, moving on. "You're overweight."

"Yeah," she didn't sound at all offended, just nodded her agreement.

"But all your lab work looks fine. Normal. Healthy." He looked back to her. "How much do you weigh?"

"One eighty." She said unashamedly.

"And you're…" he glanced down again. "Five foot four. That's not too bad. You workout?"

"Every other day." She nodded.

"But you're still overweight?" He eyes her critically.

"I like food." She smiled. "Fast food generation and whatnot."

"McDonalds's was our Lord and Savior." He muttered. "Your cholesterol is fine. Blood pressure is great. You smoke?"

"Used to. Quit about three weeks after I turned eighteen."

"Well, that's ironic." He grunted. She'd quit almost as soon as she could buy them legally. He was starting to like this girl. This…he scanned the chart again…nineteen-year-old. "Do you drink?"

"Yup." She nodded, swinging her legs back and forth from the edge of the table.

"Drugs?"

"Used to use weed regularly, but I stopped when my dealer got arrested – that was when I was about…sixteen? Fifteen and sixteen." She looked up contemplatively. "Also, when I was fifteen, I went through a phase, for about five months, when I took all sorts of pills. Painkillers. Vicodin, Oxy, Tylenol fours, Percoset, etcetera. And Serquel."

"That's for bipolar and Schizophrenia." House eyed her with much more of a keen interest. He was _really_ starting to like her.

"Yeah…" she had the decency to look at least marginally embarrassed. "First time I took it, I half passed out and it felt like I had three arms for a while."

House made a mental note to check the Psych Ward samples for Serquel.

"It had a sleep-aid built in, but the guy I got it from-"

"The dealer who got arrested?" House couldn't help but chime in.

"Yeah," and there was no shame there. "He told me that if I snorted it, I wouldn't get that side-affect. So I did that for a few months."

House raised his eyebrows in interest, "So, what made you stop?"

"Ran out of disposable cash funds." She shrugged. "I was only fifteen. Got tired of stealing from my grandparents."

"Okay…" he moved on. "Any other drug habits?"

"Well, none now." She shrugged. "I've tried - other than what I just told you – ecstasy, 'shrooms and cocaine."

"And your…" he was actively suppressing a smile at this point. "Sexual habits?"

"Casual sex with guys I meet online?" She shrugged again. "I don't do serious relationships."

"Ah," House looked insightful. "Which almost surly leads us to my next invasive question…how's your parent's health?"

"My dad has a bad back and I'm about ninety present certain he's ADD – you'd have to know him to get that. But otherwise…he's healthy as far as I know."

"As far as you know?" House had developed an interest in this girl, thus the next step for him was to ask invasive and unnecessary personal questions.

"We still talk." She raised her own eyebrows at him. "Just never about anything serious."

"Fine." House all but huffed. "And your mother?"

"Her health kinda sucks," she nodded grimly. "What with having been dead for five some years."

That didn't actually surprise the ageing doctor all that much – something about this girl seemed, to him, deeply damaged. "Were you two close?" He'd had no intension of asking that, though he supposed that could have been taken as a politely phrased medical question.

The girl just shook her head. "She bailed when I was four, so I didn't know her at all. No health background there. Sorry." She shrugged.

"Okay…" he moved on. "No history of illness in your family, then?"

"Like I said, I'm pretty sure my dad's ADD. But other than that…we have a history of bad backs. That's it."

"Boring."

"Tell me about it." She nodded.

"Alright…any life-risking tendencies? Jump out of airplanes for kicks?"

"Only once." She smiled. "Couple months ago, actually."

House took a deep breath. "You're really making this hard for me." He gestured to the paper in his hand.

She shrugged. "Just lie."

"That's what _you're_ supposed to do." He mock-hissed as if he was telling some great secret.

"I have an ethical code, thank you." She mocked a stuck-up pose and House couldn't help it – he grinned.

"Fine." He rolled his eyes. "Any history of mental illness? Depression, paranoia…"

She took a deep breath and sounded serious for the first tome since this started. "I've been depressed. It's actually why I kept taking the Serquel for as long as I did. Had anti-depressants mixed in with all that other stuff."

"And do you think you're still depressed?" He couldn't help but feel a little bad for her.

She shrugged. "I'm not a doctor, I don't really know. I'm not suicidal; I don't stay in bed all day. I can function pretty well in the real world. I'm kind of anti-social, but so are a lot of people." She paused, House was silently waiting. "I'm just…kinda sad sometimes."

"Is it out of context?" He asked almost softly. She nodded. "Have you ever thought about getting on anti-depressants? The real kind, I mean?"

She smiled and nodded again. "But I'm a poor college student. I can't afford them."

"I might be able to help you out there." He mumbled and when she asked him to repeat himself, he just shook his head and moved on.

"Ever been pregnant?"

"God, no." She sighed. "Don't get me wrong, I like kids. But I think I'll wait another decade or so before I have any."

"Good call." House grumbled and then looked at the chart he was holding, "Well, I think that about covers it. Insurance company's gonna love you."

"I have a sparkling personality, thank you." She smirked a little and House grinned yet again. This was the most interesting clinic patient he'd had in some time.

"Your form should come in the mail in a couple weeks." He said professionally.

"A'ight," She hopped off the table and the Diagnostician had to wonder if she'd meant to sound ghetto just then. "Thanks for your time, effort and cooperation, Dr. House." She didn't try to shake his hand, which the older man appreciated for some reason. "Don't forget to change my answers and lie on a few of those, I want health insurance."

"I'll see what I can do." He smiled.

He was smiling when she walked out the door, waving absently in his direction. Taking a deep breath, the crippled drug addict resigned himself to fate and limped out of the clinic and to the elevator, pressing the button for the floor to his office.

If nothing else, he'd have an amusing story to tell Jimmy over lunch.

Fin.


	13. Comedy of Errors

**Summary**: A Question House can't answer? Props to Chase.

**Pairings:** Nada

**Category**: General/Humor

**Timeline:** Duckling Era

**Rated**: K

Comedy of Errors

"He finished the book of sudoku puzzles in less than an hour," Foremen griped, "Then he spent _over_ an hour telling Wilson about this little bet we have going."

"You two started it," Cameron had her feet up on the conference table and sounded like she couldn't care less because, in all honesty, she probably couldn't.

"Well, it goes without saying that he can answer any medical riddle," Chase explained the logic the two men had put into this, "I want to see House stumped."

"We all do," Cameron agreed, "That doesn't necessarily mean its ever going to happen."

Foreman grunted, "I asked him the other day, what came first, the chicken or the egg? And he launched into this huge, philosophical thing. His official answer is; it's an irrelevant question, but he had arguments to back up either opinion."

"I gave him a Rubik's Cube yesterday," Chase admitted, "It was done in twenty minutes. And he was eating lunch at the time."

"I think we might just be fooling ourselves with this," Foreman finally seemed to be throwing in the towel. "Any question that doesn't officially have an answer is going to be philosophical, and you know where those kind of chats get us,"

They all nodded their agreement,

"And everything that isn't philosophical is going to have an answer and he's going to know it." The neurologist shook his head. "It's pointless. The man really does know everything."

A week and a half later and the random questions had finally stopped. House could conduct a differential without his ducklings interrupting. In all honesty, their little game had impressed him somewhat – that they would try that hard to fool him – but they hadn't succeeded.

He was almost disappointed.

Until one day, not long after the questions had stopped, Chase walked into the conference room with a slight smile on his face. He was trying hard not to look self-satisfied, but House, Cameron and Foreman all picked up on it.

House was standing at the whiteboard and the other two were seated in their respective seats.

"Yes?" The older man inquired. He felt oddly eager.

Chase smiled before he asked, "How do you bake a cake in the shape of the internet?"

House stared at the young Australian man for several long moments before blinking a few times and shaking his head. He tried to hide his smile but he had a feeling they saw it anyway.

He walked out of the office, handing the whiteboard marker and the case file of their latest patient to the young man as he went.

He'd be back in a little while. Right now, however, he had a very important question to ask Wilson.

FIN.


	14. Linger

**Summary**: Christmas night

**Pairings:** Nada

**Category**: Angst/Humor

**Timeline:** Duckling Era

**Rated**: K 

Linger

House was sipping the drink in front of him with only a certain amount of distain. Most of his bitterness fell away after the third glass or so. Now he was just comfortably fuzzy, floating through the night like nothing was wrong at all.

And in reality, nothing was really wrong. It was Christmas night and he was alone in a bar in downtown Jersey…but this wasn't a particularly rare occurrence for the aging Diagnostician.

Aside from a night with Wilson here or there, Greg House had been spending Christmas alone for as long as he could remember. Since Stacy left, really.

Even when he was with Stacy, he was never _just_ with Stacy around the holidays. They'd always fly up to Ohio to spend the holidays with her brother and sister-in-law and father.

House had never much liked those occasions. He couldn't deny – looking back on it – that he had enjoyed the time with his girlfriend; but the happy family setting was always just a bit too much for him.

Too many expectations. Polite chitchat, knowing which side of the plate the fork was supposed to go on, not putting your elbows on the table, pretending to like the god awful ham or roast…no, Greg House was actually much more comfortable in this bar.

He really was. The people were quiet and – excluding the bartender every half hour or so- they left him alone. The establishment itself was warm and came with a bowl of nuts. He was, all around, a pretty happy doctor.

"I don't want to go home." The happy doctor took a moment to focus when he heard that. "I don't care, I'm a not…that drunk."

That voice had an accent… House knew that accent. And, sure enough, when he turned around enough to see the other side of the bar…there was his precious little wombat.

"Sir," a security guard that House actually recognized was gripping Chase's arm rather firmly, "I need you to leave now. You're disturbing the other customers."

House thought it was kinda funny that he hadn't noticed Chase disturbing anyone. Maybe he was drunker than he'd initially assumed.

"Nuh-uh…" he shook his head back and forth slowly, his eyes were almost comically wide. "No one's disturbed…'cept you."

"I'm kinda disturbed." House piped up. Because when he got drunk he got chatty.

"Course I'm almost always disturbed."

Both Chase and the security guard were looking at him rather oddly. The muscular man in the all-black attire because he probably hadn't been expecting anyone else to get involved.

And Chase…well, Chase just spoke for himself when he said, "House? What the friggin hell are you doin' here?"

"Merry Christmas to you, too, sunshine." He quipped, and then looked over at the bartender who knew as Rob, and said easily, "That's my wombat."

Rob held both his hands up innocently. "Don't ask, don't tell, Greg."

Chase snorted. "He called you Greg."

House snorted as well, Rob gestured with his thumb to the young Australian man, "He's gotta get outta here."

Chase laughed again, "Can _I_ call you Greg?"

"No." House said immediately, "You can call Foreman Homes, though."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Chase asked, confused all of a sudden, scratching his head, "That's you."

"Homes." House repeated. "The Fresh Prince of Bel Aire."

"Will Smith before he was the man in black?"

"Something like that," House couldn't remember where he'd been going with this. He really hadn't felt all that drunk before he'd started talking.

"In West Philadelphia born and raised, on a playground is where I spent most of my days, relaxing…something, something, shooting B-ball up after school, when a couple of guys who were up to no good-" Chase sang goofily off key.

House was drunk. "-started making trouble in my neighborhood. Got in one little fight and my mom got scared, she said 'you're movin' with your Aunty and Uncle in Bel Aire."

"I liked the episode where he got shot." Chase commented, apparently done singing.

"Huh," House thought about it. "I liked the drug one."

"Where he cried at the end?" Chase asked and his boss nodded, "Yeah, me, too."

"That's great guys," Rob interrupted, House – and Chase, too, it seemed – had forgotten that he was there, "But we're about to close anyway, so…I think I'm gonna call a cab for you two."

House and Chase looked at each other and grinned. "Merry effing Christmas," One of them said and the other laughed.

"God, it's been forever since I saw that show." Chase shook his head.

"I know how to sing that song in French," House commented but then thought about it. "Or maybe Russian. I can't remember."

Chase laughed, took a deep breath and sighed, "I miss Aussie sometimes."

"I miss Japan sometimes," House agreed, because in his mind it was almost exactly the same thing.

"I miss my dad," Chase laughed outright after he spoke those words. "Kinda. I miss the dad that he was in my 'magination."

"I hate my dad." House countered. "I kinda miss my mom."

"My mom was drunk." Chase smiled, "I miss her when she wasn't."

"Aren't they dead?"

"Who isn't now a days?"

And they were laughing again, because it was kinda funny how everyone seemed to keep dying.

"Maybe Tritter will die," House heard himself say. "Or get really sick, and I'll be the only one that can cure him but at the last minute I'll say I can't then Jimmy will find an X-ray in my office, realize I could have and be all…dis-a-ma-pointed,"

"That's not a word." Chase informed him. "And if Tritter was sick you would cure him."

"Probably." House nodded, then looked around, the bar was almost empty and Rob was on the phone behind the counter. "Hey," he suddenly realized something. "When did you get here?"

"About twenty-seven years ago," Chase nodded solemnly, "But I'm thinking about going back. This life sucks."

House snorted, "At least we get higher brain function. Imagine being a dung beetle."

"I used to work with a guy who looked like a dung beetle," Chase said thoughtfully.

"Who, Homes?"

"Nah, Sid." Chase shook his head. "Sid was creepy."

"Dung beetle creepy," House agreed. Sometimes it was fun to be drunk.

"Your cab's waiting outside," Robert appeared before them to tell them this. "I could only get one. Christmas night, the company's backed up."

"Of course," Chase and House both nodded as if that made all the sense in the world and they weren't at all lost.

"Where do you live?" House inquired as they slowly moved to put their jackets on.

"Huh," Chase paused and thought about it, eventually gesturing randomly, "Over there, somewhere."

"Cool." House agreed, "Me too. I think."

"Give the cab driver your license." Rob apparently overheard this conversation. Both men looked at him strangely.

"Is he a stalker?" Chase inquired easily, sitting back down on the bar stool and putting his left shoe on.

"Does he wanna shoot me?" House wondered when exactly Chase had taken his left shoe off.

"Oh, does he wanna steal our identities?" Chase, it seemed, couldn't remember the intricate complexities of bunny ears through the loop.

Rob just shook his head, "Your address." He said. "So he can get you home."

"But no one's at home." Chase left his shoe untied and stood back up. ":Let's go to your place and watch the Fresh Homes of Bel Aire."

House shrugged, "Sure."

It took them ten minutes to find their taxi, another twenty to pull out House's wallet and extract his license, seven minutes and eighteen seconds to get from the random street they'd ended up on back to House's apartment and exactly twelve hours and fourteen minutes before James Wilson let himself into that same apartment and found House on the couch and Chase curled up in the recliner chair, both sound asleep and drooling lightly.

The whole apartment smelt like vomit and alcohol, the TV played Nick-at-Nite reruns of, ironically enough, _The Fresh Prince of Bel Aire_, in the background.

Wilson turned off the TV and smiled sadly as he watched the two lonely men shift in their sleep almost simultaneously.

"Merry Christmas, House." He chuckled to himself as his gaze drifted to Chase. "At least you weren't alone this year."


End file.
